Dangerous Liasons
by Munchieees
Summary: To Holmes, she was always 'The Woman', but could she ever be anything else? When Irene Adler requests Holmes' help, the detective has to work harder than usual to surpress his feelings for her. Especially as the case requires Holmes to pose her husband!
1. New Clients

Sherlock Holmes often wondered just how much you could _really_ learn about a person from simply observing them. Though it was a skill he had always possessed in a primeval sense, it was one he had refined with practice.

A layer of black dust beneath the fingernails or a habit of clearing one's throat could indicate any number of things to the ordinary man. But only to Holmes would it point to a lifetime working the coal mines in northern England. Maybe an ordinary person would piece these factors together given time, but to Holmes it was simply a matter of seconds.

Holmes noticed things that nobody else noticed. He came to conclusions that no one else drew. Moreover, Holmes could solve cases of crime that others had deemed unsolvable. It was all these factors and more which had earned Holmes a reputation as one of the most devious, most intelligent, most charmingly obnoxious private detectives London had ever known.

Holmes had been finely tuning his already superior powers of deduction for the best part of 30 years. In just under a week's time, he would be celebrating his 36th birthday, and as Doctor Watson had threatened, there was going to be much celebration.

Often, Holmes suspected that Watson's annual enthusiasm over his friend's birthday was inspired by the safe knowledge that he himself still had five years to go before reaching the same age. Had Watson been anything more than his 31 years, Holmes doubted he would be nearly as smug!

And so in the spirit of tradition, Watson had tried yet again to organise a birthday supper without having his plans thwarted by Holmes. When Holmes realised that his companion was becoming accustomed to his destructive techniques, he decided to employ a new tactic and simply not turn up for dinner. Three years in a row, a sudden onset of a life-threatening illness had struck the great detective down on the very eve of his birthday, and although Watson complained bitterly, Holmes refused to budge. It was not that he bore any umbrage to his creation or date of his birth, he just did not feel any inclination to celebrate the passing of yet another year with expensive food and vast quantities of alcohol.

This year, however, Watson had a fellow conspirator: his wife, Mary. Mary and Watson had been married for little over two years, and although they had produced two charming children in that time, Holmes could still feel nothing short of rabid dislike for the woman.

Holmes was the honorary Godfather of Watson's two daughters: Tilly and Rose. His position as official Godfather had been thoroughly rebuked by Mary, and a more 'suitable' candidate chosen. It was clear from this moment forward that Holmes's dislike of Mary was, if anything, equally matched. Holmes could fully appreciate that there would be better people to lead two small girls down the path of righteousness, but he really resented being told so by _that woman!_

The ringing of a doorbell shook Holmes out of a narcotic-fuelled daydream. Someone was at the front door. Holmes did not bother with going to the window. Whoever was down there, Mrs Hudson would soon see to them.

Holmes had taken to inhaling Watson's surgical alcohol when enthusiasm for life had left him for dead. Doctor Watson would not approve...But then, Holmes mused, what Doctor Watson did not know would not hurt him!

By Holmes' count, nearly three minutes passed before there was a rap on the door of his room and the lean, slight figure of Doctor John Watson stood in his midst.

"In the name of all that is sacred, what _have _you been doing to yourself, Holmes?"

"Watson, how good of you to drop by." Holmes tried to conceal his bottles beneath a stack of novels, but Watson was too quick.

"How many times must I tell you that this is for surgical use only?" Watson confiscated the small bottle and tucked it inside his coat pocket. "And how foolish must you be to smoke a lit pipe so close to chemicals of this potency?"

Watson felt like a mother scolding a disobedient child as he looked critically around the room.

The sight was somewhat disturbing: Mechanical gears and gadgets; brightly-coloured concoctions in glass tubes and thick layers of dust lay on every surface. When Watson had lived in the rooms of 221B Baker Street, he had bought the detective a handsome bookcase in which to store old case-files and evidence notebooks. It was with great distress that Watson noticed Holmes much preferred the floor as a means of storage than more conventional methods.

"As always, I am staggered as to how you can live and work in these conditions!" Watson strode purposefully to the window and drew back the curtains, ignoring Holmes' objections. "If the dust gets any thicker, you'll no longer be able to _find _your pipe!"

"Yet again, Watson, you come here to complain." Holmes screwed up his eyes against the bright light streaming in through his windows.

"As I have said before, I never complain," Watson said spiritedly. "Least of all about your vendetta against my wife, or your apparent determination to turn my daughters towards a life of depravity!"

"The drop of rum was only intended to soothe the pain of cutting teeth."

"And letting Tilly play with your revolver at aged 6 months?"

"There were no bullets inside."

"Maybe, but Mrs Hudson wasn't to know that when she entered the room to find an infant holding a gun to her sister's head!"

"I gather by the milk stain on the lapel of your jacket that the Misses Watson are with you," Holmes observed, changing the subject. Bizarrely, he snatched the right-hand sleeve of Watson's suit jacket, held it up to his nose and took a long sniff.

"And unless you have taken to moisturising your hands frequently with rose water, Watson, there was the hand of a lady inside the crook of this arm recently, leading me to the conclusion that your _dear_ wife is here also!"

"Mary and the girls are downstairs," Watson said. "We are visiting a solicitor in Mayfair this afternoon; Mary's great aunt has just died."

"How very unfortunate."

"Anyhow, I wanted to stop by and see how you've been getting on, old chap!" Watson drew up a chair and handed the morning newspaper to Holmes. It was almost like old times as Holmes tutted at the date written on the front page.

"Dear, dear, is it August already?" Holmes asked from around his pipe. "That would make those daughters of yours..."

"11 months," Watson said with a touch of pride. "To the day in fact."

There was a silence as Holmes breezed through the morning headlines to see if there was anything of interest.

"You're hovering." Watson had not realised Holmes was watching him.

"Pardon?"

"You never hover without a reason, Watson," Holmes said, sucking contentedly on his pipe. "So unless you have come here purely to torture me, one must deduce that your visit has a purpose. Might I ask what it is?"

Watson sighed deeply.

"Mary asked me to speak with you. She feels uncomfortable with th fact that you quite obviously dislike her."

"I assure you, Watson, I have nothing but the deepest respect for your wife."

"Holmes, ever since Mary and I have been together, you've been unfriendly, obnoxious and unwilling to cooperate." Watson stood up from his chair, commanding the full attention of his companion. "Now, Mary admits she's been less than cordial to you, but she agrees with me when I say that two years is more than long enough!"

Holmes crossed one leg over the other and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.

"So what is it you would like me to do?"

"I am asking you to be nice to Mary," Watson said as patiently as he could muster. "She in turn will make an effort to get along with you. Please, Holmes, this is not just for me, but for Tilly and Rose as well." Watson had a feeling this would tip the odds in his favour. Although he would not openly admit it, Holmes was rather fond of the twins.

"You know what your problem is?" Watson pressed. "You suffer from almost child-like jealously...You have done ever since I first talked of marrying Mary." Watson smiled at his old friend. "And as much as I am flattered to be the object of one of the few emotions you have yet to repress, I have to think about Mary. She wants to be your friend, Holmes. Will you let her try?"

Holmes stared out of the window to the street below, and Watson wondered if his friend had listened to a word of his speech.

"Very well," Holmes said at last. "I shall, as you put it, 'make a greater effort' to be friendly towards your wife."

"Mary," Watson cut in. "Not 'your wife'; _Mary."_

"Mary," Holmes agreed grudgingly. "You have my word, Watson."

"Excellent!" Watson beamed happily and shook Holmes readily by the hand. "Thank you ever-so much, old chap!" He pulled a silver pocket watch from his jacket. "I'm sorry to cut this visit short, but we have to be in Mayfair within the hour!"

"Been drinking again, Watson?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your pocket watch has a number of minute scratches on its surface," Holmes said causally. "Scratches most likely sustained from the dropping of said watch on the gravel chippings outside your favourite tavern on the Tottenham Court Road."

Watson cleared his throat loudly.

"Mary's brother asked me out for some drinks." He tucked the watch back inside his pocket and headed for the door. "I really must be going now." He paused in the doorway. "Oh before I forget, I have this morning's post for you. Mrs Hudson asked me to bring it up."

Holmes nodded, unsurprised. Mrs Hudson rarely entered his quarters alone unless it was with a loaded shotgun. Watson placed a white envelope on the sideboard and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Holmes waited until he heard wheels of Watson and Mary's coach pulling away from the outside of the rooms, the wheels churning up dust and dirt as they went. Then he snatched the envelope from the sideboard for examination.

As a man who spent a great deal of his time studying the finer details of the criminal mind, Holmes was in the habit of seeing conspiracy and danger in the most obscure of places. He would not taste a beverage offered him without first sniffing it for poison or sedative. Any movement of a hand or arm in his direction was blocked for fear of an aggressive attack. Watson called it paranoia. Holmes called it caution.

Only after checking the envelope for diamond-razor edges or powdered chemicals did Holmes tear open the envelope's seal.

The letter within was written in printed capitals so the handwriting could not be deciphered. The ink was black Indian, Holmes observed, most likely written by use of a thin-nibbed ink pen. There was a smudge of ink on the right side of the page, suggesting that the writer was right handed.

**TO MR SHERLOCK HOLMES** (the note read)

**I REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE. MEET ME IN MY ROOM AT THE HOTEL ROYALE IN COVENT GARDEN AT NOON TOMORROW. ASK FOR MY NAME AT THE DESK. YOUR PAYMENT WILL BE GREAT, BUT ONLY IF YOU ATTEND THIS APPOINTMENT ALONE.**

**I WILL EXPECT YOU TOMORROW**

**YOURS SINCERELY**

**D.B CAMBELL**

Holmes read the note through several times. The watermark was of the Hotel Royale, suggesting that the paper had been taken from the hotel itself.

So who _was_ D.B Cambell? Holmes read the name over and over, but it was not ringing any bells. To Holmes' mind, that left two options: Secretive new client or pseudonym. And Holmes was inclined to believe it was the latter.

A trap? Perhaps. But Holmes was thirsting for a new case, and this mystery had him hooked.

Determined to find out exactly who D.B Cambell was at their tomorrow-noon meeting, Sherlock Holmes pressed more tobacco into his pipe and lit up a match.

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So...What do you guys think?? This is my first Sherlock Holmes story, and I'm LOVING the oppertunity to write around Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law's characters rather than sticking to the more 'traditional' characters of Holmes and Watson!

Pleeease review and let me know what you think!!

=D


	2. Pseudonym

"Welcome to the Royale, sir." The doorman tipped his hat to Holmes as the detective strode into the hotel's foyer. "Will sir be requiring a room for the night?"

"No," Holmes said slowly, looking about his surroundings. There were four hotel employees in the foyer, and eight guests besides Holmes. "I would like to be taken to the room of a D.B Cambell."

"Of course, sir." The steward nodded. "Your name, please?"

"Holmes," he said distractedly, taking in the more than twice broken nose of the doorman. _Former fist-fighter? _"Sherlock Holmes."

"Very good, sir. Miss Cambell said she was expecting you."

Holmes nodded, smiling ever-so slightly to himself. _Miss_ Cambell...Now that really _did_ deepen the mystery! He had spent many hours the previous night reminiscing as to who D.B Cambell might be. Could it be that one of his theories might turn out to be correct..?

D.B Cambell's room was number twelve on the fourth floor.

"The luxury suite, sir." The doorman tipped his hat again. "Will sir be requiring anything else?"

"No thank you." Holmes was studying the handle and hinges on the door, wondering how easy it would be to kick down if it became necessary to do so.

"If I might be so bold, sir, this room seems an awfully expensive one to hire out for a simple business meeting!"

"Miss Cambell was never one to do things by halves," Holmes said, surer now than ever that he knew the real identity of D.B Cambell. He was also amused that the doorman had assumed this to be a business meeting. If Holmes' deductions turned out to be accurate, he was certain that 'business' would be the very last thing on his client's mind!

"I can continue from here alone if you would like to return to your post."

"As you wish, sir." The doorman nodded respectfully and began to back away down the corridor.

"You know you really should see someone about that ingrown toenail on the third toe of the left foot. That could become very uncomfortable if left untreated." Holmes held out a hand. "Pencil and paper?" One was produced and Holmes scribbled down an address.

"Doctor John Watson," Holmes said, handing the address back with a flourish. "He's a personal friend and an excellent physician. Besides, he is always delighted when I send trivial patient cases his way!"

"Well...thank you kindly, sir." The doorman tucked the piece of paper away, looking from Holmes to his left foot (which of course had an ingrown nail on the third toe) and then back again bemusedly. "If you would pardon my asking, sir, but how exactly did you..."

But Holmes was no longer paying attention. He had one ear pressed to the door in a businesslike manner and although the doorman found his behaviour a little odd, he thought it best not to disturb him.

As soon as the doorman had vanished around the corner, Holmes examined his reflection in the brass number '12' on the door. Considering who was behind the door, (and Holmes was now almost certain of this fact) he felt a sudden necessity to flatten down a stray curl of dark brown hair that had escaped from the oiled arrangement on top of his head.

He was about to knock on the door, but it swung open before he could raise a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," said a voice from within. "It's been too long."

Holmes stepped over the threshold, more than a little elated to find his suspicions had been correct after all.

"D.B Cambell, I presume?"

"Did you expect anyone else?" said Irene Adler.

"Indeed not," Holmes retorted. "The scent of your perfume laced to the paper rather gave you away."

"My signature scent," Irene said breezily. "I should have known 'the great detective' would see through my little ruse!"

"You made it rather more difficult for me this time," Holmes said. "As in you actually requested my company as opposed to arriving in my room unannounced! Impressive...though of course, I learned not to underestimate _you_ a long time ago..."

Holmes instinctively averted his eyes as Irene came slinking across the room in a black dress that exposed her shoulders as well as a great deal of cleavage. She smiled wickedly, sensing that she had put the detective on edge.

Holmes swallowed and gave Irene a customary glance. Her hair, slightly longer than the last time they'd met, still hung in smooth brown curls below her shoulders. Pale skin and blood-red lips; pointing somehow to danger, and contrasting beautifully with the deep blue irises of her eyes.

He caught the scent of her perfume and shivered slightly. The reaction was tiny, yet Irene still felt it.

"You familiarised yourself with my habits as a person," Irene said, standing very close to Holmes. "But you continue to underestimate my powers as a woman, Sherlock..."

This was one of the factors that set apart the tempestuous relationship shared by Holmes and Irene. Not even Watson called Holmes by his first name...

"On the contrary, Irene," Holmes said, distancing himself as best he could from the beautiful creature beside him. "I have never devalued you as a woman. In fact, I would wager that I know you much better than most."

"I'm listening..." Irene produced a bottle of champagne from a bucket and poured two glasses.

"Well, I have always known you to be deviously cunning..." Irene was moving steadily towards Holmes, a champagne glass in each hand. She was now but two metres away. "Strikingly intelligent..." The gap had closed to mere inches. Every time Irene moved her head, wisps of her satin hair brushed against Holmes' cheek. "And...Dangerously beautiful, of course..."

Irene flashed a very seductive smile. She leaned her scarlet lips close to Holmes' ear.

"Did you miss me, Sherlock?"

"Unfortunately, I did."

"I knew you would," she whispered, drawing backwards and leaving a breath of warm air on Holmes' neckline. "A toast: To us..."

"To continued liaisons."

"To _future_ liaisons."

Both raised the glasses to their lips, but only Irene drank.

"My champagne not good enough for you, detective?" Her accent was American; as breezy and warm as Holmes recalled.

"Perhaps you remember, Miss Adler," said Holmes, "That the last time you offered me a drink, I woke up secured to a bed without my clothes." Holmes set down the untouched champagne. "I would prefer to avoid such a situation this time."

Irene turned away with a flick of her chestnut curls, blinking her blue eyes in a way she knew got under Holmes' skin.

"You wouldn't be complaining if we had _both_ been naked!" Realising just how uncomfortable she was making her guest, Irene decided to end the torture and cut to the chase.

"You've probably guessed that I didn't invite you here for champagne."

"I didn't think it was possible that you invited me here purely because you missed me..."

"Sherlock, I need your help." Irene frowned reluctantly. "I'm in a situation and you're the only one I can turn to. How's that sounding to you?"

"Do you mean the case, or the fact that you of all people has come to me for assistance?" Although he would never let it show, Holmes had not been expecting this to be the object of Irene's invitation.

"The case," said Irene with a touch of irritation. "What do you think of the case?"

"Not enough information to say," Holmes said. He never sat down; preferring instead to stand and examine the mantelpiece above the hearth. He looked over his shoulder. "Perhaps you could elaborate?"

"I was out in India at the beginning of Fall last year," Irene said. "The guest of a powerful Maharaja and his son." Irene's eyes gleamed slightly at the mention of the son, and Holmes felt a peculiar twinge in the pit of his stomach. Jealousy? _Nonsense!_ He brushed it off.

"What do you know about the Queen's Sapphire?" Irene asked.

"If you're referring to the crown jewel of the Kashmir province," Holmes said, "Then the Queen's Sapphire is a beautifully-cut blue stone of priceless value." He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I should make this clear now: If you have stolen, damaged or made off with the Queen's Sapphire, I will find myself unable to help you!"

"I _didn't_ steal it," Irene said sulkily. "It just happened to _get _stolen while I was staying in the Royal Palace with his Highness!"

Holmes almost groaned out loud, but kept it suppressed as always.

"And the Maharaja believes you to have taken it from him?"

"He wasn't wearing it at the time," Irene said defensively. "No one actually _wears_ it. The sapphire is kept under lock and key, surrounded by armed guards in the centre of a large antechamber."

"For someone feigning innocence at the disappearance of this precious stone, you seem to know a little too much about the security arrangements surrounding it!"

"Do you want to hear this or not?" Irene tossed her hair again and sat down on the end of the four-poster bed that was the defining feature of the room. "I wasn't in the palace when the jewel was taken. It was a dark night and I was taking a walk in the gardens after dinner."

"Were you with anybody?"

"I like walking alone." Irene's face bore the hint of an amused smile. "I think you of all people know I can look after myself, detective!"

Holmes was about to retort, but Irene was only teasing him, and he let it pass. He wondered yet again what it was about this woman that seemed to provoke such a change in him...

"I was in the gardens over by this fountain," Irene continued. "There were these pretty mosaic tiles on the garden wall...It was really pretty." Her face seemed almost to darken suddenly. "I heard screaming and a commotion from inside the palace, and so I turned 'round and headed back. When I got there, the guards were dead; shot in the neck, and the sapphire was gone."

"And you were accused of taking it?"

"Apparently the fact that I had no one to confirm my alibi for the night of the heist was enough to convince the British Guard that I was responsible," said Irene, bitterly. "You Brits have already staked a claim over a sapphire that's belonged to the people of the Kashmir province for thousands of years! There's dozens of people been trying to get their hands on that stone, but the second it goes missing, I'm the one who's taken it!"

"And the Maharaja?" Holmes enquired. "What was his opinion?"

"The Royal Family aren't exactly on the best terms with the Brits," Irene said with a smile. "Can't say I blame them given how your soldiers stormed across Asia and took their country by force!"

"The British Empire," Holmes said thoughtfully, still tracing fingers along the mantelpiece. "Rather superior to the American settlement now, isn't it?"

"If you'd rather rank quantity over _quality,_ then..."

"We could debate this one for some hours," Holmes interrupted. "Where does the Maharaja stand?"

"Like I said, the Brits won't be getting a Yuletide card from the Royal Family this year," Irene said with a wicked smile. "They're on my side...Sorry to say, the Brits aren't! They've been fighting for months to get rid of the Maharaja, but he's too well protected." Irene shook her head. "Let's just say protection is all he's got left! All the Maharaja's power over the Kashmir province is gone; the Brits are in control."

"And the British settlers want you arrested for the theft of the Queen's Sapphire?"

Irene nodded. "I fled India at the advice of the Maharaja, but the Brits sent out a message...a warrant for my arrest. I'm wanted in more than ten countries across Europe! The only reason I'm _here_ is..."

"...Because a little reverse-psychology goes a long way," Holmes finished. "Not only is this the last place a British fugitive would want to conceal herself, it's the last place the authorities would search for you."

"Exactly." Irene poured herself more champagne and swallowed the golden liquid in one gulp. Watching her, Holmes' eyes widened by a few millimetres. "Anyway, I need my name cleared."

"If you are angling for the pardon of the British law system, you would be better off speaking to Lestrade," Holmes said indifferently. "Her Majesty has laid a sizeable amount of power on those portly shoulders...It's about time it was put to some practical use!"

"Inspector Lestrade has me at the top of his 'Most Wanted' list," Irene argued. "If I go to Scotland Yard, I'm as good as dead."

Holmes swallowed, suddenly and atypically uncomfortable. "I'm sorry...did you just say 'as good as dead'?"

"The death penalty," Irene said bitterly. "Once I'm caught, I'll be extradited back to India where the British Guard will 'decide on a suitable punishment.'" She got to her feet and strode to Holmes' side, looking up at him imploringly. "I need _you_ to solve the case, Sherlock," she said. "Come to India with me, find who's really responsible and clear my name."

"You can't just walk back into India when you're wanted in more than ten countries!"

"The Maharaja can protect me," Irene said stubbornly. "...But only if I'm a married woman when I step back into the province."

"What kind of protocol is _that_?"

"Ancient _modus operandi_ of the Kashmir province and the Royal Family, but I won't go into details." Irene smiled slightly and rolled her eyes up and down in a flirty manner. "All I need is a husband, Sherlock..."

"No," Holmes said, knowing full well what Irene was suggesting. "I'm not getting involved in this mess...Clearing your name is one thing, but _marrying_ you is quite another!"

Irene raised an eyebrow and lifted a small wooden box from the sideboard. It had been on the tray with the champagne, and Holmes had noticed it upon entry but given it no second thought. Irene opened the box's lid and took out two identical gold wedding bands. One was slightly larger than the other, so as to accommodate the finger of a man.

"Rings, detective," Irene said nonchalantly. "One for you and one for me." She slipped the gold band over the correct finger and then held out the hand, admiring it from all possible angles. "We don't _actually_ have to be married," she explained. "We wear the rings, and no one will know any different..." She smiled slyly. "Of course, I'll have to change my name to 'Irene Holmes'...If we're to do this, we should do it properly!"

"It's...out of the question."

Irene reached behind the chaise lounge and produced a small pouch, its contents clattering together merrily as she moved it.

"Five hundred shillings," Irene said with a firm finality. "I said you'd be paid well. Now, will you take the case?"

"No payment necessary," Holmes said, waving away the money.

"And the case?"

"Rejected." Holmes tried to avoid Irene's eye, knowing there would be hell to pay if he looked at her for too long. He looked instead towards the closed door of the hotel room, planning to excuse himself at the first opportunity. "I have no doubts that a woman of your guile should find it no trouble at all to clear your own name without my help." Holmes nodded in ironic decorum. "So if you will excuse me, Miss Adler, I have an engagement elsewhere."

He made towards the door, but Irene had moved quickly and was now standing directly in front of him, blocking his path. Holmes sighed, "Miss Adler, I was under the impression this conversation was over..?"

"And I was under the impression you were one of London's greatest detectives!" Irene shook her head mockingly. "What's the matter, Sherlock? " She leaned in close, putting a lily-white hand on Holmes' chest and whispering into his ear. "Is my case too much of a challenge for you?"

Irene made to put her other hand on Holmes' chest, but the detective blocked her; grabbing both of her wrists and holding them tightly.

"That is neither here nor there."

"Then take the case and do some good!" Irene found that she was unable to free her wrists through brute-strength, and so she thrust upwards with a knee, aiming for Holmes' crotch. But Holmes had been expecting this, and he twisted so that Irene's knee connected harmlessly with his hip. She growled and tried a second time, but Holmes twisted his grip on Irene's wrists so that the woman was facing the opposite way; her back pressed against Holmes' abdomen and her arms twisted ridiculously in front of her chest.

"Dear, dear," Holmes said with a derisive smile. "How _can_ you hope to stay ahead in your game if you practice the same techniques every time?"

"You're right," Irene said, smiling. It took Holmes a few seconds to realise that this was not Irene's pleasant smile; it was her wicked smile. "Have you seen _this _one, detective?" Irene drove backwards with her head, the back of her skull smashing into Holmes' nose. On reflex, the detective let go of Irene's wrists to clutch at his face. She took full advantage; thrusting her hips backwards into Holmes' stomach, then twisting 'round and finishing him off with the two consecutive knees to the groin that he so richly deserved.

Holmes let out a groan and crumpled to the floor, the wind knocked brutally from his lungs.

When Holmes opened his eyes and looked up, Irene was standing over him. Even through the torrent of blood that was leaking down from his badly-bruised nose, Holmes could see a mocking smile etched to her lips. He tried to focus on her face rather than the glimpse of stocking that protruded from underneath the satin folds of her dress or the sight of her breasts squeezed tightly into their bodice...

Holmes felt his hand being taken, and for once, he made no attempt to fight against it; safe in the knowledge that Irene would not take kindly to being challenged yet again.

"I'm so glad we're finally doing this," Irene slipped the gold wedding band over Holmes' finger. "Man and wife...How does that sound to you, detective?"

"Almost as ridiculous as the idea of your innocence!"

"I'll accept responsibility for a crime when I've actually committed it," Irene said, straddling Holmes' legs so he was unable to get up. "But this time I'm innocent, Sherlock. The only difference is that when I'm guilty, I know how to get 'round it!" She shook her head with a reminiscent smile. "I don't think I've ever been totally innocent before...Must be a change in the winds!"

Holmes emitted a noise; halfway between a cough and a disdainful laugh. Irene raised her eyebrows, smiled and leaned in close to Holmes.

"Oh, and for the record..." Her voice was barely above a seductive whisper. "I missed you too..." And then her lips were on his, brushing furiously against each other as their tongues fought desperately for control over its counterpart.

Irene had begun the kiss, and it was she who broke it off as well; drawing backwards as Holmes looked up at her with brown eyes brimming over with curiosity and a slight amusement.

"I've got two tickets for a train across Europe," Irene told him. "It'll take us from the coast of France across Europe and into Asia. We get to the Kashmir province, solve the case and get back here in time for tea." She glanced at the Grandfather clock that stood in a corner of the room. "Sorry to leave you, detective, but I have somewhere I need to be...Doesn't time fly when you're having fun!"

Holmes refused to say a word as Irene lifted her weight from his legs and brushed herself down. She admired her reflection in the looking-glass, and then took up a black felt hat with a wide veil.

"Oh, just so you know, the train leaves from Victoria station on August 21st. That gives you a week and a day to pack." She placed the hat on her head, fully aware that Holmes was watching her every move.

"It amuses me that you think I'm actually going to accompany you on this excursion..."

"But...you are," Irene said, smiling yet again as she made her way towards the door. "You don't need to pretend for my benefit...Male pride is overrated anyway! The point is, I _know_ you'll come..."

"What makes you so sure, Miss Adler?"

Irene was halfway out of the door by now, but she turned and smiled one last time at the detective.

"Because I know you too well, Mr Holmes!"

With one more stunning smile, Irene shut the door and was gone. From his position on the floor, Holmes closed his eyes briefly; taking advantage of his sudden solitude to let out a long and sardonic sigh. He raised a hand and stared for a full five minutes at the gold wedding ring on his finger. The thought of being married was, in itself, a horrifying one to quick-witted Holmes. But the thought of being married –even if for a simple exercise- to Irene Adler was enough to make goose pimples stand out on his skin! But Irene had been right about one thing at least: She _did_ know him too well. Holmes sighed again, wondering how he had even managed to pretend he wouldn't be taking on her case after all.

He looked again at the gold wedding band. It seemed ridiculous to keep it on for the time between now and when the case would begin in a week's time. Watson would be bound to ask questions, as would the voracious Mrs Hudson. Holmes took hold of the wedding ring in his fingers and attempted to pull it off. It would not come. Holmes tried again, tugging harder and harder until the band threatened to rip at the skin of his knuckle. Wily Irene had requested the band be made especially to fit Holmes' finger. It had been made big enough to slip _over_ the finger, but not big _enough_ to remove. Holmes almost growled in frustration as he picked himself up off the floor, knowing full well that Irene's stunt with the ring had been for nothing but her own amusement.

_That bloody woman! _


	3. Tension

**Author's Note: Apologies for the long gap between updates on this one...Lots on my mind, but that's not an excuse! Enjoy anyway...Will try to make the next update a bit quicker! :D**

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Holmes lay flat on his back on the floor of his study; knees beneath his chin and legs contorted so that his feet were tightly pushing on either side of the wedding ring. He strained with all his might, pushing upwards and outwards with his feet in a last desperate effort to dislodge the band from below his knuckle. He hissed in pain as the skin of his finger was ripped yet again from the pressure. And still, the ring would not budge.

Cursing under his breath about "Irene Adler" this and "Irene Adler" that, Holmes got up off the floor and wrapped a cold compress of ice around his bleeding finger. He flopped down into an armchair, exhausted and infuriated. It seemed that Irene was going to have her way once again.

Inspiration coming to him (mingled with a strong desire to beat Irene at her own game), Holmes reached for a small oil lamp that sat beside his armchair and flagrantly smashed the glass against the close by wall. Inflammable oil began to drip slowly from the broken burner, and Holmes held his finger underneath the flow, coating his hand in the wet, sticky substance.

He attacked the ring once again, using the oil as a lubricant to help him slip his finger out of the gold band. But the oil had made the ring slippery, and Holmes lost his grip; his hand snapping backwards and glancing painfully off his nose.

Face smeared with paraffin oil and blood from his grazed finger, Holmes sat back in his chair and wiped the remnants of oil and glass into the cushions of the chair. The ring would have to stay where it was for now...

On an impulse, Holmes rummaged underneath a stack of dust-clad Dickens novels and pulled out a file. The name 'IRENE ADLER' was printed in bold lettering on the cover. It was the thickest folder in Holmes' collection.

Holmes thumbed through the pages, recollecting his notes and thoughts on the mysterious Irene Adler that he had complied over the years he had known her. When the lady herself had enquired, Holmes had claimed he was forming a dossier for such a time when he would be asked by Scotland Yard to arrest her. In truth, Holmes had spent months collecting articles, certificates, photographs and letters for his anthology; partly to satisfy a strange infatuation he seemed to have developed for Irene Adler, and partly so he could ensure she came to no harm in the months (and sometimes years) that she was out of his sight.

Holmes set down the folder after a few minutes, his eye caught by the sunlight glinting off a glass-fronted picture frame that sat on the table by his elbow. The picture held a photograph that was, of course, of Irene. Holmes had requested it as a souvenir of sorts after he had first met her several years ago.

"You know, there are much nicer pictures I could give you if you want one..?"

Holmes leapt to his feet and spun 'round, arms raised in a defensive stance. He did not relax his position even when he locked eyes on his unannounced guest: Irene was standing directly behind his armchair, hair tied back with a ribbon to keep it away from her face and wearing a coolly unconcerned expression.

Holmes looked behind her towards the open window of his study.

"Normal people tend to use the door."

"I'm not a normal person."

Holmes studied his visitor, piecing together the facts and trying to work out why she had come here. Irene had dropped her usual apparel and was dressed instead in a pair of unfeasibly tight black trousers, a plain white blouse and a pair of loosely tied brown boots.

Trying to avert his eyes from the taut fabric stretched across her thighs, Holmes looked up at Irene and said: "If you have come here to harass me about your case, I assure you that no further decision has been made."

"I came to drop off your ticket," Irene said as if she hadn't heard him. She waved a thin piece of decorated card in Holmes' face, but he caught her wrist in midair and plucked it from between her forefinger and thumb.

"Patience, detective," she drawled with a wicked smile. "If you'd given me a minute to gloat, I'd have put it on the table for you!"

"A piece of paper of this slight thickness and weight often includes a sharp edge or corner that could easily cause injury and bleeding," Holmes said without looking up, holding the ticket a few centimetres away from his face and examining the edge. "A dangerous thing when placed in the wrong hands..."

"I'd like to know why you think mine are the wrong hands."

"Am I supposed to see them as the right ones?" As Holmes realised he was still clutching Irene's wrist and relaxed his grip with a view to releasing it, he noticed for the first time that she was wearing an exquisite diamond ring on her left hand. "A new ring?" he asked.

Irene held it to the light, a smug smile creeping across her beautiful face. "Every married woman needs an engagement ring," she said. "And since you weren't about to go out and get me one yourself..." Holmes was suddenly dazzled by the midday sun shining through the window and catching the diamond in its rays. A blinding spectrum of light was thrown out; dancing across the floors of the dingy room and illuminating it in glorious Technicolor.

"It catches the light well," Irene said as Holmes blinked and shielded his eyes.

"It's dangerous," Holmes observed when he had recovered his sight. "Much like its owner..."

"In more ways than one!" Irene was still admiring her ring. The diamond really was one of the biggest Holmes had ever seen; bigger even than the engagement ring he had bought for Watson to give to Mary.

"Larger than life, certainly," Holmes said derisively. "Flamboyant, ostentatious..."

"You forgot 'beautiful'," Irene said.

"Naturally."

A curl of her cocoa-coloured hair had fallen from the chignon on top of her head, and Holmes impulsively moved to her side and tucked it back into the arrangement. She looked up at him in silence and Holmes froze as soon as his own eyes met the deep blue pools of hers. His hand remained at the side of her face until he recovered himself and removed it.

Clearing his throat loudly, Holmes stepped away from Irene and returned to his armchair. But though the distance calmed the tension between them, there was no denying that sixty-thousand volts of electricity were shooting around the room. It was unclear to Irene whether Holmes didn't feel it, or whether he was just choosing to ignore it. She sensed a strong hint of denial about the man; he jumped a mile and a half whenever she was near. But whatever the case, the apprehension was incredible.

"So, what are you thinking of packing?" Irene asked. She began to pace the room, sneaking looks into every cupboard and under every surface. Holmes matched her pace; closing doors she had left wide open, at the same time trying to hide the dossier he still held in his hands.

"I wasn't aware I had agreed to accompany you." Holmes firmly turned the lock on a steel safe before Irene could get inside it.

"The Maharaja will provide us with some traditional items once we reach the province," Irene said, as if she had not heard him. "But you'll need some other clothes...evening clothes, shoes, etcetera." She finally found what she had been looking for; a battered suitcase underneath one of the tables that lined the walls of the study. "Where do you keep your clothes?" It took her a few seconds of analysis to realise that Holmes owned neither a chest of drawers nor a wardrobe in which to hang his garments. Items of clothing were scattered freely around the room: A white shirt over the back of the armchair; a pair of black shoes at opposite ends of the room; trousers hung on the standing lamp and a bowler hat (of all places) inside a tank of festering water.

"Were there fish in here once?" she asked as she removed the hat from the tank and shook some of the moisture from its brim. The hat went into the suitcase, followed swiftly by the pair of trousers she picked off the lamp.

"Gladstone fished them all out," Holmes explained, lighting his pipe in a futile attempt to appear nonchalant.

"Gladstone?"

"Watson's bulldog. Nervous thing; permanent limp...I think it's paralysed down one side..."

"How did that happen?"

"Coach and horses accident as a pup," Holmes said quickly. "Now if you could return my clothes to where you found them, I would be most grateful!"

Irene ignored him and continued to search for clothes, flinging them into the suitcase with careless abandon. Holmes stole over towards the case and began to remove the items as quickly as Irene placed them inside. She glared at him and packed ever faster. Neither said a word; their fearsome rivalry requiring full measures of concentration. Irene's frustration was showing- As fast as she could pack the items, Holmes removed them again immediately.

When Holmes succeeded in hurling his bowler hat, with expert aim, back into the empty fish tank, Irene made a swipe for his wrists. Holmes couldn't move out of the way fast enough and he found himself locked in a brutal arm hold against which he could offer no resistance.

Irene's eyes were blazing with hot irritation, and she looked up at Holmes expecting to see the feeling mirrored. Holmes' eyes were confusing; at first glance, they appeared black and impenetrable. But the longer she looked, the more the guise of reserve seemed to slip. And when Irene tightened her gaze, they seemed to change colour completely from coal-black to a softer shade of deep brown. She couldn't put a finger on exactly what she saw, but whatever it was, it caused her to break out in a sudden hot-sweat.

Holmes was suffering from a similar struggle. He had tuned his senses so accurately that he could instantly recognise a change. He didn't often lose control, but the scent that radiated from Irene's skin and hair was veering close to unbearable. Just having her so close to him was scrambling Holmes' senses in a way he was definitely not used to. Her fingers wrapped tightly around his wrists felt to Holmes like red-hot brands of iron that burnt and scalded his skin. And yet at the same time, the idea of her letting go of him and breaking their connection seemed as a travesty.

Hardly in control of her senses, Irene moved her head upwards by the merest of inches, simply to test Holmes' response. The detective's reaction was instantaneous: his head jerked downwards towards Irene's. Irene smiled triumphantly, watching as a look of self-annoyance sparked in Holmes' eyes.

Irene moved again ever-so slightly. Again, Holmes moved as if to mirror her. The gap between their faces had closed to the best part of two inches and each could feel the other's warm breath on their skin.

As she felt the detective's breath labour slightly in its rhythm, Irene parted her lips and leaned in even closer. Holmes responded, drawing her in and touching his nose very slightly against hers. Both had their eyes closed, and both hearts were hammering in their ears. Their lips were millimetres apart, when a knock sounded on the door of Holmes' study. They drew back from each other just in time as the door was flung open.

"Holmes, Mrs Hudson called me. An intruder was spotted climbing the front of the house and..." Watson trailed off as he saw Irene. "Miss Adler," he managed. "I...What a _pleasant_ surprise..."

"Your ticket's on the table." If Irene was at all flustered, it didn't show. She slinked towards the door, slipping effortlessly back into her usual semblance of obviously displayed seduction. "Victoria station, August 21st." She looked back over her shoulder at Holmes and flashed a smouldering smile. "I'll be waiting, Sherlock..." She reached the door. "Good to see you again, Doctor." With those words to Watson, she was gone and the two men were left alone.

Watson recovered the power of speech first. "Holmes, what was she doing here?"

"Miss Adler came to request my help on a personal case." Holmes was packing tobacco into his pipe. "You know, Watson, you would benefit from being less suspicious. It amuses me no end that you assume Miss Adler's presence was for anything other than professional reasons."

"The woman came in through the window," Watson said, removing his hat and placing both hands on his hips. "Mrs Hudson is up in arms because she had a call from Mr Broadwell across the street, saying he had seen a burglar trying to enter the premises through an upstairs window. Tell me, Holmes, is there anything more likely to arouse suspicion than entering a house through the upstairs window instead of the door?"

"You should know that putting your hands on your hips makes you look increasingly like your good wife."

"_Holmes!"_

"Miss Adler finds herself in a difficult situation," Holmes amended. "The British Guard of the Kashmir province in India wants her charged for the theft of the Queen's Sapphire."

Watson laughed harshly, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. "That woman is quite unbelievable."

"She didn't take it," Holmes said. "It is a false accusation with very little evidence to back it."

"She's innocent?"

"Apparently." Holmes blew out a mouthful of smoke and chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pipe. "If we can find the real thief then Irene's name will be cleared."

Watson's hands returned to his hips. "Holmes, you're not seriously considering accepting this case?"

"Miss Adler didn't leave me much choice..."

"But this is absurd!" Watson was incredulous. "The second she steps back into the province, the British Guard will have her arrested and you along with her!"

"The province's Maharaja can protect her," Holmes explained, "On the condition that she is married when she returns to India."

"So another innocent man will be pulled unwittingly into this sham as well." Watson raised his eyebrows. "Where does she intend to find a..." His voice trailed off as he noticed the gold band on the detective's finger. "...Holmes," he said slowly. "Holmes, _please_ tell me that you did not agree to marry Irene Adler..."

"I did not agree to marry Irene Adler."

"Have you then married someone else in the time since I last saw you?"

"No."

"Then why on Earth are you wearing a wedding ring?"

"I am to _pose_ as Miss Adler's husband for the duration of the case," Holmes elucidated. "It doesn't require me to marry her; just to act as her spouse to provide protection."

"But if the case doesn't begin for a week, why are you wearing the ring now?"

Holmes didn't make eye-contact. "...The ring is too tight to remove."

Watson tried in vain to conceal a smile.

"And are we to expect a visit from our good friend Professor Moriaty?"

"Not this time," Holmes answered. "Irene is in genuine need of help, no foul-play involved."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I can tell."

"Would you please stop being so aloof with me!" Watson feared this was another statement that would cause Holmes to liken him to Mary, but he continued nonetheless. "Holmes, when will you realise that the woman is both capable and willing to manipulate your feelings for her to her own ends?"

"There are no 'feelings'," Holmes said stubbornly. "And not even Irene is that good a liar."

"Why now?" Watson asked. "Why this case?"

"Five-hundred shillings, Watson..."

"Oh Holmes..." Watson shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "Don't try and pretend to me that you are doing this for the money."

Holmes had no response for this, and he merely puffed on his pipe, staring out of the window.

"So," Watson said, "When are we leaving?"

"_I_ shall be meeting Miss Adler at the station on the 21st."

"And _I_ shall be accompanying you."

"Not necessary."

"Oh I beg to differ." Watson patted his old friend on the shoulder. "I may be a married man, but I still have time for friends, Holmes. It's like I always say, two heads are better than one."

"You have a wife and two children, a medical practice, other tasks to attend to," Holmes argued. "It would be inconsiderate of me to pull you away from such responsibilities."

"As much as I will miss Mary and the girls, the idea is somewhat preferable to that of allowing you and Irene Adler to gallivant around India without proper supervision!"

Watson put his hat back onto his head and headed for the door. "Oh and, Holmes...?"

Holmes looked up.

"Would you join Mary and myself for dinner tonight at the Grande tonight? Our usual table, meet us there at a quarter past seven...?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good." Watson opened the door. He glared at Holmes. "And remember...Be nice to Mary!"

"Of course."

Watson closed the door on his way out, and Holmes was alone with his thoughts. He wondered how easy it would be to 'be nice' to Mary; especially as there was a very real doubt in his mind that Mary would be 'nice' to him.

Holmes sat down in his armchair and crossed one leg over the other. He picked up Irene's dossier which he had set down on the table upon Watson's entrance. Brushing a strand of flyaway hair across his forehead, Holmes turned over the front page and began to read what he had written previously. He tried to focus on his reading, rather than think about what Irene was going to say when she found out Watson would be accompanying them to India the following week...


	4. Mary

**Author's Note: This chapter is a little more fluffy than usual...but for Watson/Mary rather than Holmes/Irene. Apologies to the Sherene fans and also to the ones who favour a bit  
of Holmes/Watson slash! Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter...I've been trying to focus on characterisation, and I'd love to know what you guys think! Enjoy! =)**

The Grande was one of Holmes' favourite places to eat on an evening. When he was in the mood to be civilised, he would book a table and they would serve him his favourite entrecote steak with asparagus and red wine sauce. The atmosphere was calm, the people were friendly, and although Holmes did not care for the quality of the violin music, the pretty face of the first cellist was more than enough for him to put up with it.

Directly underneath one of the ornate carved arches that made up the ceiling of the restaurant and dance hall, Watson and Mary sat at their usual table. A waiter with a quite obvious limp showed Holmes to the table, and Watson stood up to greet him.

"Holmes! So glad you could make it, old chap."

Holmes shook Watson by the hand and stole a look around his companion to where Mary was seated at the table. The first time Holmes had met her -in this same restaurant and at the very same table- she had been nervous and cordial; always aware of the fact that she was meeting her fiancée's very closest friend and desperate to make a good impression. Now as Holmes looked at her, it was clear the tables had turned. Mary was no longer anxious, but rather comfortable, and safe in the knowledge that she was happily married and there was no longer any need to worm her way into Holmes' affections.

Watson saw Holmes watching Mary, and leaned in close to hiss into his friend's ear. "Remember...Be nice!"

"If the good lady sees fit also..." Holmes switched on a charming smile he felt sure Mary saw straight through. "A pleasure, Mary dear. How aggrieved I am to learn that your daughters are not yet sleeping through the night."

Watson's gaze leapt suspiciously to Holmes' face. Mary appeared puzzled.

"Why...What do you mean, Mr Holmes?"

"Only that the young ladies are awake for a large portion of the night," Holmes said as he took his seat, "And how sorry I am that you are getting so little sleep."

Mary looked worriedly from Holmes to her husband, and then back again once she saw that Watson too had no idea where his friend was leading.

"I am sorry to correct you," Mary said slowly, "But both Rose and Tilly sleep comfortably. Neither John nor myself have any trouble sleeping at night."

"I'm afraid the dark circles under your eyes say otherwise." Holmes unfolded his napkin and tucked it into his collar, helping himself to a slice of bread. "Barely noticeable, but even so, your fair colouring and the current lighting makes it painfully obvious you are sleep-deprived."

If not for the public position of their table, Watson would have buried his face in his hands out of despair. He compromised by shooting a final warning glare at Holmes, and then taking an extraordinarily large gulp of wine.

"You are...incorrect in your deductions, Mr Holmes," Mary said, visibly counting to ten in order to calm herself down. "John is a light sleeper, and he can vouch for the fact that I do not leave bed at night to go to the nursery." She looked over at Watson. "Isn't that the case, darling?"

"She's right, Holmes," Watson said, praying that this final blow would bring an end to his friend's ridiculous games for the evening. He doubted very much that it would.

"You employ a nanny, do you not?"

"Yes, we do," said Mary.

"And she is the one who attends to the girls at night?"

"That is correct."

"Then is it not your maternal bond to your daughters that causes you to wake every time one of them cries? The same bond that will keep you lying awake in bed for hours at a time because the presence of a nanny means there is no need for you to leave the bedroom yourself and see to them?"

"If that is the case, then why would John not wake as well?" Mary almost snapped.

"A mother's instinct is perhaps the one thing my worthy colleague does not possess," Holmes answered. The smile he gave Mary was one not lacking in its complacency. "Luckily for you, dear, they will grow out of it. In the meantime, perhaps a more strict method of parenting would be beneficial. Crying is a child's way of seeking attention, and if ignored, the child will soon stop." Holmes glanced at Watson. "Basic parenting techniques, Watson. You should learn how to apply them."

"How many children do you have, Mr Holmes?" Mary asked icily.

"None," Holmes answered. "But I'm sure you already know that...which leads me to wonder why you are asking...?"

"I was just interested to know where your expertise in childcare came from..."

"I had a younger brother," Holmes said indifferently. "And to be brutally honest, my dear, I'm surprised you don't already know that the best way to raise a child is with a firm hand and a lot of love. Regulation and love go hand in hand." He broke off a chunk of bread, chewed and swallowed, then went back for more. "For example, who is the disciplinarian in your marriage?"

Watson and Mary looked blankly at each other

"Disciplinarian?" Mary asked.

"Yes." Holmes looked back and forth between the couple before him. "Disciplinarian. Who is the one that hands out punishments and harsh words? Who controls the daily routine of the family? Who keeps the other on the shortest leash?"

"Holmes..." Watson made an effort to interrupt, but Holmes ignored him.

"When the girls are in bed and you get a few hours to yourselves on an evening? Who decides what you do?"

"Holmes, please..."

"When you go up to bed together, who wants to take it slowly, and who throws the other down on the bed and..."

"OH look, the food is here!" Watson jumped to his feet, looking as though he might kiss the waiter who had arrived just in time with covered silver trays of food. He smiled widely at Mary. "Look, sweetheart, the food is here!"

"So it is..." Mary cleared her throat and managed to smile at the waiter as he laid a plate of braised lamb and vegetables in front of her.

Watson received his seared sea bass and began to eat, sending up prayers of thanks to God that the appearance of steak and asparagus had distracted Holmes from his analysis of his and Mary's love-life. But it was not to last long. When his steak was only half-finished, Holmes set down his cutlery.

"Mary, have you ever considered plugging your ears before bed?"

"What on Earth for?" Mary was caught halfway between confusion at the subject and dread of what was to come.

"So that you are no longer awoken by the cries of your daughters during the night."

"Holmes, _please_ let's move on and discuss a new subject!" Watson was watching Mary, and could see the wrath gathering on her face. The last thing he needed was an angry wife at dinner.

"No." Mary's voice was sharp, and trembling with concealed anger. "No, I have not."

"I would recommend it." Holmes took up his knife again. "Or if you prefer, I have recently perfected a strong sedative which I would be happy to..."

"_Holmes!"_

Watson's voice finally got through to Holmes, and he stopped talking; if only for a minute to finish his steak. When he was done, he looked between Watson and Mary with an amused smile on his face.

"We never _did_ decide which of you was the disciplinarian..." He examined the furious glare that Mary was shooting him across the table, and met her eye for perhaps the first time. "Then again, it seems silly to ask when the answer is right before one's eyes..."

Mary stood up abruptly and turned to her husband. "If you'll excuse me," she said hotly, "I must powder my nose. Which way to the lavatory, darling?"

Watson pointed the direction, and Mary stalked off to the lavatory.

"Holmes," Watson said, surprised at how remarkably calm his voice sounded. "_Please_ tell me you did not just offer to sedate my daughters with a drug you tested out on my dog..?"

"It was merely a proposal for you to consider."

"And I suppose this would be the same drug that has been shown to cause moderately permanent paralysis and a slowed heart-rate to the point where the tested party is thought to be dead?"

"The very same." Holmes swallowed the last mouthful of his asparagus. "In fact, I would be interested to see the effect the drug has on humans if you would be willing to let me use young Tilly and Rose as examples..."

"You are...You are _unbelievable!"_ Watson exploded.

"Actually, that was a joke," Holmes told him. "You know as well as I do that I would never use your daughters as test-objects."

Watson took a deep, calming breath. "_I_ know that," he said. "I know that because I have known you, lived with you and worked with you for years. But Mary hasn't that level of experience. She doesn't know when you are 'joking' or when you are actually offering to test a dangerous and not to mention illegal drug on our daughters!"

"I doubt it would have made much difference, Watson," Holmes said shortly. "Your wife seems to have taken an avid dislike to me..."

"You offered to anesthetise our children..."

"To help you sleep at night."

"You called her a tyrant..."

"I called her a _disciplinarian." _

"You pried impertinently into our personal lives..."

"Only to examine you as a couple."

"You instructed her as to how to raise our own children..."

"I merely offered advice."

"And you told her she has bags under her eyes!" Watson laughed sardonically. "Do you know what, Holmes? I can't imagine why Mary seems not to like you!" He sighed and gulped again at his glass of wine. "Besides, Mary is..._emotional_ at present..."

"Why so?"

"Look, Holmes, I think it might be best if you go home..." Watson acted as if he had not heard Holmes' last question.

"I haven't yet paid for my portion of the meal..."

"I'll pay for you," Watson said wildly, "Please, Holmes, just go before Mary gets back from the lavatory." He smiled wryly at his old friend. "I need time to change Mary's opinion of you before putting to her that I plan to head off to India with you at the end of this week."

"If it will cause problems with your wife, I would be more than happy to go alone," Holmes informed him. "Besides, there is no guarantee I'll be able to get you a ticket."

"If that's the case, then I will return home," Watson said. "But as I've already told you, I am not prepared to bear the consequences should I allow you and Irene to head off to India by yourselves."

"Neither of us require a chaperone."

"Not individually," said Watson. "But I was here the last time you and Adler got together and I well remember what happened." He raised an eyebrow, keeping one eye on the lavatory door for the reappearance of his wife. "At least let me come as a foreign liaison officer...I can ensure you and Adler are aware of the laws of the province and that you stick to them."

Holmes got to his feet. "If you are willing to explain to Irene why I have brought you along, then I will be only too happy to have you by my side."

"_That _shall not be a problem." Watson smiled. "I have dealt with bigger challenges than Irene Adler!"

"Then I'm sure we'll spend an enjoyable time together." Holmes shook Watson's hand. "Good evening, Watson. Do tell your _dear_ wife that I said goodbye..."

Almost as soon as Holmes had left the restaurant, Mary reappeared back from the lavatory. She sat down at the table and looked around with a puzzled expression. "Where has Holmes gone?" she asked Watson. "I didn't see him get up..."

"Holmes thought it best to leave for the evening," Watson told her with a smile. "He has a client to meet early tomorrow morning."

"I see." Mary smiled, suddenly relaxed. "More wine, darling?"

"Yes please." Watson sipped at his glass. He decided there was no need to beat about the bush. "Mary, there is something I've been meaning to ask you...A proposition, if you will. If involves Holmes and myself, and..."

Before he could finish, the waiter came up to the table with a bottle of expensive-looking champagne.

"Champagne?" Mary's eyes gleamed as she looked at her husband. "Oh, John, did you?"

"I..." Watson blinked. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I don't believe we ordered champagne..."

"I realise that, sir, but this was sent as a gift from the member of your party who has just left," the waiter said, laying down the bottle on the table. "He asked me to inform you that he has taken care of the bill himself, and also to pass on a message of congratulations for the imminent addition to your family."

Mary and Watson gulped simultaneously.

"He said _what?"_ Watson asked, but the waiter was already long gone.

Mary looked across at her husband, totally shocked by what she had just heard.

"How...How could he _possibly_ have known?" she gasped. "He didn't even look at me when I got up from the table..." Watson noticed that her hands had flown absent-mindedly to rest on the slight bulge of her stomach.

"Holmes' methods of deduction are second to none," Watson answered, shaking his head and smiling privately to himself.

"But the bill...the champagne..."

"He is a generous man..." He took Mary's hand and stroked the diamond ring that nestled on her finger. "Surely your ring is proof of that..." Watson picked up the bottle of champagne, shaking his head again. "Of course, it would never occur to Holmes to make the link between champagne and the dangerous effects excess alcohol can have on a developing foetus..."

"Take it to him," Mary said, sliding the bottle across the table towards her husband. "Take it and give it to Holmes as a way of thanks." There was a twinkle in her eye as she looked at Watson. "And when you two get back from your forthcoming trip to goodness knows where, I will meet with him again and thank him in person."

Watson gave her a look. "How did you know I was going to ask about going away with Holmes?"

"Your friend is not the only one with amazing powers of deduction," Mary giggled. "I knew that I wouldn't be able to keep the pair of you apart for long. And I am fine with that." She straightened her face, suddenly serious. "Just please be careful, John," she said quietly. "I remember what happened the last time...And if I'm honest, I am not sure if I trust Holmes to look after you properly."

"You are amazing," Watson said, genuinely awestruck. He leaned over to kiss her. "I never thought you would be happy about letting me go off with him...particularly after that little show at dinner."

"It is true that Holmes is not my favourite person at present," Mary said. "He never has been. He is rude, and uncouth, and self-satisfied, but we have one thing in common...We both care very deeply about you."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "I am hoping in different ways...?"

"In entirely different ways," Mary laughed. "But if being married to you means that I have to put up with Holmes, then put up with Holmes I shall!" She accepted another kiss from her husband, returning his ready smile. "So where are you off to this time?"

"India."

Mary swallowed. "India?" She laughed nervously. "I was hoping for something a little closer to home, but I suppose it can't be helped. When do you leave?"

"From Victoria station on the 21st."

"Will you be back in time for the girls' birthday?"

"I very much hope so." Watson sneaked a hand under the table and rubbed the bulge of her belly. "And if not, I shall certainly be back in time to welcome _this_ little one into the world..."

Mary smiled and put her own hand under the table on top of Watson's. They stayed where they were for a few seconds, and then Watson got to his feet.

"Perhaps we should go now...Unless there is anything else you want..? It's on Holmes..."

"I'm fine, thank you, darling." Mary slipped her arm through her husband's and let me lead her towards the exit. It was getting late, and both of the Watsons were longing for firelight and the familiar sounds of their two little daughters back at the family home.

"When the baby is born," Watson began, "Would you consider letting Holmes attend the christening this time?"

"Perhaps..." Mary considered. "Do you think he will behave himself?"

"Very unlikely."

"Then it is equally unlikely he will receive an invitation." Mary looked over at Watson as he hailed a cab on the street outside the restaurant. "He _is_ a funny man, isn't he? Has he ever been married?"

"Never." Watson helped Mary to climb into the cab and then jumped in after her, closing the door. "Trust me when I say that Holmes is most definitely not the marrying type!"

"But then has he never had a love interest?" Mary shook her head. "He is a peculiar man, but surely he is not incapable of love..."

Watson smiled knowingly and lowered his voice so that the cab driver could not listen in to their conversation.

"It is funny you should mention it," he whispered. "Let me tell you about a certain woman named Irene Adler..."


	5. A Safe Bet

"You know, Watson, I find it rather amusing..."

Doctor Watson looked up very slowly at Holmes, his grey trilby hat tipped slightly to one side.

"Would you care to elaborate?"

Holmes was drawing the bow of his violin over the taut strings of the instrument; the vibrations making his fingers tingle as the notes rang out.

"It strikes me that since your marriage, you have become uptight, overly-critical and extremely embittered." He lifted the bow from the F string with a flourish. "It amuses me..."

Watson folded his copy of The Times, laid it down on the table and then folded his arms to match. "Uptight, overly-critical and embittered? Holmes, I would _very_ much appreciate an explanation..."

"You have always had a rather particular way of doing things," Holmes told him. "You yourself prefer to live in a clean and well-kept environment; you wear a jacket when you attend dinner and you are always deferential towards your wife and any other woman who may cross your path."

"And you take the fact that I like to live like an actual human being as a sign that I am becoming embittered?" Watson crossed one leg over the other and dropped his eyes once more to the newspaper. "Perhaps it is time to cut back on the tobacco, old chap..."

"Perhaps we can now add 'unusually sarcastic' to that list," Holmes said without looking up from his violin. "In the months following your marriage, your visits to Baker Street have become less and less frequent; to the point where you will only show your face to ask a favour or at the request of others."

"Aha." A small smile crept to Watson's lips. "It is as I suspected before- you are jealous of the attention and time I lavish on Mary and our daughters...?"

"That's quite absurd..."

"I was under the impression that we were work companions and friends; not a feuding married couple." Watson raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I was wrong... Anyhow, I'm sorry if you feel I've been neglecting you of late, Holmes."

"It's not myself I am concerned for..."

"And they say a leopard never changes its spots!"

"On the contrary, Watson, my whole outlook of life has been altered through my disquiet for you."

"I am flattered."

"Indeed you should be." Holmes abandoned his violin on an end-table covered with cobwebs. "I have been observing you closely for some months at great personal effort, and my deductions have been somewhat disturbing."

"Would you see fit to share them?"

"Naturally." Holmes slid back in his armchair, folding one leg beneath himself and placing his hands in his lap; the fingers spread so that the tip of each finger was touching its opposing counterpart. "You used to have quite a gay swagger in the way you walked. But nowadays, it is as if the steel poker that is the oppression of marriage has been placed up your posterior, ensuring that you walk with a straight back and your head held high." Holmes lifted a finger and drew an invisible line in the air, indicating Watson and his attire. "Your visits to Baker Street were once an informal occasion whereby you would remove your jacket and join me in a glass of scotch. Now, you sit straight in your armchair with your jacket on and with no scotch in your hand..."

"Perhaps if you were to offer me some..."

"...You would decline," Holmes interrupted. "Because Mary does not like you drinking..."

Watson stepped around this remark. "Do you have any other comments?"

"To draw evidence from my earlier points, your wish to live and work in a clean and well-kept environment is now bordering on the obsessive." Holmes lit his pipe and took a long drag. "Even now as I smoke this pipe, your doctor's mind is plagued with thoughts of how smoking can damage a man's health..."

"Is it wrong that I like to be cautious?" Watson demanded. "I do not approve of smoking because I personally would like to live to see both of my daughters in a wedding dress."

"That would be a tight squeeze..."

"You know well what I mean, Holmes."

"Of course I do," Holmes said as he took another drag on the pipe; taking special care to release the plume of smoke in a position that would not carry it towards Watson. "As I was saying, you are strangely obsequious to women. You were even polite to Irene when you saw her here in my quarters..."

"Irene Adler is a woman just as any other," Watson said dismissively. "Just because she does not appreciate chivalry, there is no reason why she should be overlooked. And as for my cordiality towards women, it's called 'being respectful'...You should try it one day."

"I was respectful towards your wife..."

"Please, let's not go there."

"And I suppose congratulations are in order?"

"What?"

"The bottle of champagne," Holmes prompted. "The impending extension of the Watson family...?"

"Mary's pregnancy? Oh yes." Watson smiled. "I performed a preliminary examination just a few weeks ago and everything appears fine."

"And do you hope for a boy or a girl?"

"It doesn't matter, so long as he or she is healthy," Watson said thoughtfully. "Although, with two daughters, I suppose a son would be nice..."

"With three children, you will be busy."

"Absolutely," Watson said. "Luckily we have a nursery maid, but I intend to spend as much time with my children as is possible." He straightened his hat and turned over the page of the newspaper. "Fatherhood keeps me busy...There is no longer time for frivolous games and pastimes..."

"As I was saying," Holmes said triumphantly, "You are a changed man, Watson. Embittered in that you resent the amount of time you dedicate to your family, even though you are loath to admit it; and overly-critical in that very little of what I do is good enough for you anymore." Holmes looked up at his friend, unsure as to whether his eyes were displaying sympathy or subjugation. "The John Watson I used to know would have packed up this little conversation long ago with a suggestion that we go for a drink. What happened to that John Watson, Watson?"

"He got married."

"And that is my point exactly. Marriage is the root of all evil." Holmes re-lit his pipe with a nonchalant flick of a match. "God forbid I should ever partake in it..."

"Holmes, you are wearing a wedding ring."

"And already I feel its pull as if it were a gold shackle around my ankle."

"Are you sure that's the ring and not the pull of the woman who gave it to you?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"It doesn't matter." Watson shrugged. "I feel no shame of the change in me. People change, Holmes, as do priorities. But friends will always be friends, whereas marriage is a much less stable affair; am I correct?"

"You are."

"I am not going to apologise for my recent 'change of character'. I have a family now- a wife I am lucky to have and two daughters I would give my life to protect." He smiled sympathetically at Holmes. "I just hope that one day, you too will see fit to experience that kind of love as well. There's no shame in it, you know."

"Just as there's no shame in letting yourself go every once in a while..."

"That's your lookout." Watson gathered up his paper. "Personally, I would go for love over personal enjoyment; even if the two don't necessarily go hand-in-hand."

Holmes smiled and shook his head. "Oh, Watson," he said, "Love comes in many forms..."

* * *

"Boxing? Your love is for boxing?" Watson stared incredulously at Holmes as they stood in the doorway of a packed tavern; the air inside of which was thick with cigarette smoke.

"Not so much a 'love' as a 'personal enjoyment', as you put it." Holmes led the way over to the bar and Watson followed, close on his heels.

"Holmes, why are we here?" Watson stepped nervously over a drunkard who lay splayed on the floor, and wondered if he should be giving him medical attention.

"I spent my money for this month's rent on dinner and champagne for you and your wife." Holmes slapped a ten shilling note down on the bar, and two draughts of bitter materialised in front of him. "Mrs Hudson is like a vicious dog when it comes to rent...Once she has her teeth in you, it's likely you will have to break her jaw to get free again!" Holmes found a table for two in a dark corner and they both sat down. "Fighting hooligans in this pub is a good opportunity to earn some coin."

"How so?" Watson was intrigued.

"For every bout I win, I claim a handsome share of the money that was bet on my opponent claiming victory," Holmes explained.

"So is that the only reason you are here? To earn some money getting your head punched in by the local muscle?"

"Quite."

"And is my purpose here to stop you from swallowing your tongue when you are knocked out, or to collect your missing teeth from the boxing ring?"

"That brings me onto my second objective for this evening's merriment." Holmes took a large mouthful of bitter. "Your re-embodiment into your old self."

"My _what?"_ By no means for the first time in his life, Watson was attending the notion that his friend had finally lost what was left of his mind.

"This, Watson, is the evening when you learn to let go of the stresses of marriage and indulge in a few old pleasures..." Holmes reached surreptitiously into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a piece of dog-eared paper. "I believe you are a man who enjoys laying a wager..?"

"I haven't gambled in years," Watson said, furrowing his brow. "And with children's school fees to pay in the near future, I am not sure now would be a good time to begin again."

"The fight system works on a 'last man standing' basis," Holmes said, ignoring Watson's remonstrations. "A man can leave the ring at any time, but in doing so he forfeits the match. The bouts will continue long into the night until there are no more contenders, in which case a winner will be declared outright."

Watson smiled. "You've done this before..."

"As have you." Holmes indicated the ballot paper in Watson's hand.

Watson still looked unsure. "...No, no, I had better not."

Holmes changed his tactics. "Watson, just think of the prize money that awaits you if you choose the winning competitor. You could buy yourself a new pocket watch to replace the one that has received so many scratches over the years."

"And how will I ensure that I choose the winning competitor?"

"Place all of your money on me."

Watson smiled, raising an eyebrow. "And I there was me thinking you had a system in place..."

"What kind of system were you expecting?"

"One whereby I could walk away with the winnings without having to place my money on you and your skills at boxing."

"You never doubted my fighting skills before..."

"It has been a while since I've seen them in action." Watson folded the betting slip and slid it across the table towards Holmes. "Look, Holmes, I appreciate the effort you've made to salvage whatever's left of 'my old self', but I am accompanying you to India in three days time, and I would like to spend some time with Mary, Tilly and Rose before that day comes."

"You'd go without your new pocket watch?"

"I'm afraid I will not give up my trusty pocket watch until it actually ceases to work." Watson pulled the battered time piece from his jacket and tapped it lovingly. "A few scratches make no difference to its ability to tell time."

"At least stay and finish your drink," Holmes wheedled. Watson sat back in his seat and took a mouthful of bitter.

"How much prize money are we talking about?" Watson asked, trying to appear indifferent.

"Multiple bags of gold on a good day." Holmes looked around the packed bar, searching for prospective challengers amongst the drunks and whores that lined the walls. "Tonight, I would estimate that the man who backed the champion would walk away with at least a hundred shillings."

Watson whistled, impressed. "As much as that?"

"Reconsidering your bet?"

"Perhaps." Watson sipped his beer. "But there can't possibly be that many contestants in a bar this small? It seems like quite a nice spot for a drink..."

Almost as soon as Watson had spoken and even as if the Gods had engineered it, two men fell into their line of sight. They were both tall and stocky with bulging muscles, pot-bellies and bald heads. One had a bushy beard that covered most of his face. Both were roaring drunk and agitated.

"Evening, Bill," said Holmes, nodding politely at the man with the beard.

"Evenin', Mr 'Olmes." Bill returned the nod, just as the other man slammed a flabby fist into his mouth. There was a gush of blood and Bill's head snapped backwards. One of his teeth –dislodged by the punch- landed in Watson's glass of beer.

"You were saying?" Holmes asked as Bill pitched backwards and slumped, unconscious and bleeding, over their table.

"Never mind," Watson muttered as he checked Bill's airway and then slid him off the table and onto the floor once satisfied that he was breathing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed a loud voice from somewhere behind the bar. "The first fight of the evening will start in fifteen minutes. That's fifteen minutes, ladies and gentlemen; place your bets now!"

"Last chance for that pocket watch." Holmes drained the last of his beer and sighed appreciatively. "Are you in or are you out?"

Watson was looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. "It _would_ be nice to buy Mary a little present...And perhaps I could get a doll each for Tilly and Rose..."

Holmes did not interrupt, but rather let his friend's mind do the work for him. Watson made up his mind.

"Alright, Holmes, I'm in."

"Good man! You can place your bet by the bar." Holmes removed his jacket and hung it over one arm.

"Oh, Holmes..?" Watson called out as Holmes was about to disappear into the crowd that was now gathering around the designated 'ring' that had been set aside for the boxing matches. "These men you'll be fighting...Are they all going to be as big as that man who knocked out Bill?"

"Most likely."

Watson laughed out loud. The beer had gone to his head slightly, and it was like there was a permanent buzz inside his mind. "Holmes, how on Earth do you intend to win tonight?"

Holmes smiled as he stepped into the ring. "That, my dear Watson, is elementary..."

* * *

"Well...That was an interesting evening." Watson leaned over Holmes with a bowl of disinfectant and a damp swab. He dabbed at one of the many cuts on his friend's face and neck, paying special attention to the enormous gash above his left eye.

"Interesting and profitable..." Holmes indicated the bag of money that sat on the table. "How much was in there?"

"One hundred and seventy shillings," said Mary. She smiled. "I counted it myself."

Watson, Mary and their daughters lived in an elegant three-storey townhouse in Cavendish Place. Watson kept his daytime medical practice on the ground floor while Mary and the girls occupied the top two floors with the cook and the nursery maid.

Holmes' final bout in the ring that evening had led to several nasty flesh-wounds, and since Watson did not trust Holmes to attend to them properly, he had insisted his friend accompany him home so he could see to them himself.

"I'm nearly done here," Watson said, staunching another wound and producing a needle and surgical thread. "Just let me stitch up that cut above your eye..."

"I'm surprised you approve of your husband gambling, Mary." Holmes raised the eyebrow that wasn't held in place by Watson as he looked across at the blonde woman that was sat on a chair in the surgery; one hand resting gently on a small baby bump.

"Approve? Of course I don't approve!" Mary tried to sound chiding, but there was a twinkle in her eye "You don't need to worry, Mr Holmes, John has promised to make it up to me, haven't you, darling?"

"Yes, dear, a new evening dress wasn't it?" Watson looked up from his stitching and gave Mary a kiss. "I'll be up in a minute. I love you."

"I love you too." Mary headed towards the door. "Goodnight, Mr Holmes."

"Pregnancy suits her well," Holmes commented as soon as Mary was out of earshot. "I see she is suffering from the usual child-bearing problems: her ankles are swollen and dear, dear, such terrible mood swings!"

"Mary's sudden cordiality towards you has nothing to do with her pregnancy. Or mood swings." Watson cut off the thread and told Holmes to inspect his handiwork.

"And she is really willing to let you come to India?"

"It will cost me one diamond necklace." Watson smiled, looking at a framed photograph of Mary, Tilly and Rose he had on his desk.

"I thought it was an evening dress?"

"That's for the gambling." Watson was tidying away his surgical supplies into miniature drawers that lined the walls of his surgery. "I think she is joking, but I'll get her the necklace anyway."

"And the dress?"

"After the baby is born." Watson smiled and shook Holmes by the hand. "Thank you, Holmes; both for the life-lesson and the money I made from it."

"Anytime, Watson, anytime." Holmes walked down the steps of Watson's house, wavering slightly from a combination of alcohol and concussion.

Watson watched him go, and then shut the door.

Later that night when he lay in bed next to Mary, one arm around her back and the other cradling his unborn child, Watson could not help but smile. Perhaps it was possible to have the best of both worlds...


	6. A Test of Skill

The morning of August 21st dawned bright and sunny. There was a pleasant breeze blowing across London, and it ruffled the trees outside Victoria station like it would the fur of an animal or the hair on one's head.

Holmes, Watson and Mary had made their way across the city at first light; anxious not to miss their ten o'clock train. Holmes disliked crowds because it made it rather difficult for one to survey and properly analyse the surroundings. People kept themselves to themselves in the city; walking with heads pointed to the ground, not wanting to draw unwanted attention. This in itself frustrated Holmes as he could not observe the passers-by as he normally would like to.

Holmes led the way into the station while Watson and Mary walked arm-in-arm behind him. A porter had collected their luggage upon their arrival at the station, and now nothing remained but to find the right train and await departure.

"That must be our train over there." Watson called out to Holmes, pointing past the detective to a lustrous steam-engine of iron and red paint.

"It's beautiful," Mary said admiringly. She turned to her husband. "You know I've never ridden the train before?" There was a distinct longing in her eyes, and Watson smiled sympathetically.

"Your place is here with the girls, my love."

"You will write to me, won't you, John? As soon as you get to the province..?"

"A letter every day," Watson promised, cupping her cheek with his hand. "You have my word."

"And I shall write back to you," Mary said. "Send me the address and I shall write with news of the girls."

"I know you'll look after them in my absence."

"Of course I will." Mary leaned in and let Watson kiss her. There were tears in her eyes as she hugged him close.

"Your worries are futile, Mary," Holmes told her. "I shall return your husband to you in the exact same state you see him now. There is no need to be anxious."

"I don't doubt that, Mr Holmes." Mary smiled, but inclined to whisper in Watson's ear. "Please, John, don't do anything reckless..."

"Shouldn't you be saying that to Holmes rather than me?"

"Perhaps," Mary whispered, "But I don't love him like I do you..."

Holmes turned his back courteously as Watson took Mary in his arms and kissed her again. Bystanders were beginning to notice, and when Watson finally emerged for air, a great number of people were watching disapprovingly.

Watson cleared his throat and examined his pocket watch as a rather flustered Mary patted her hair back into submission.

"It's twenty minutes to ten, Holmes," Watson said, "Shouldn't Miss Adler be here by now?"

Holmes did not answer. Instead, he was scanning the crowd for any whisper of Irene that was visible. A curl of cocoa hair concealed under a hat? The ruffle from a pink dress against the unembellished multitude of a Victorian crowd? Holmes was neither surprised nor alarmed to see now such signs amongst the throng of people in the station. Irene had ways of concealing herself; tricks she would play, sometimes for no reason other than her own amusement.

"Perhaps Miss Adler is anticipating that we will come to her." Holmes examined the train that was waiting at the platform and the ticket in his hand. Having waved a final farewell to Mary, Watson came to stand next to him.

"Holmes, I need a ticket to be allowed onto the train."

"Then we shall wait here a few minutes more."

A theory was forming in Holmes' mind. Irene had one of the greatest forecasting minds Holmes had ever seen, and she knew just as much about Holmes as Holmes in turn knew about her. Strange, then, that Irene had not thought to leave an extra ticket for Watson...

"Perhaps we should go to the ticket office," Holmes said, the logistics of his theory whirring around his brain like mayflies over a pond. "It may not be too late to purchase a third ticket..."

Fighting against the crowds that hurried in the opposite direction, Holmes and Watson approached the ticket office and addressed the man who sat behind the desk.

"The ten o'clock train to Portsmouth," Holmes said. "Tell me, are there any more tickets available for immediate purchase?"

The man was young, light-haired and sat on a wooden chair with an uninterested expression on his already dour face.

"I am sorry, sirs, there are no more tickets for that train."

"Right. Thank you." Watson nodded and turned away from the booth, cursing his luck. Holmes, however, stayed where he was.

"Is there something else I can help you with, sir?"

"The train journey across Europe takes some days and nights, does it not?" Holmes was studying the young man in front of him with a peculiar expression on his face. Watson saw his companion's face reflected in the glass of the ticket booth, and immediately recognised the look of calculation in Holmes' eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Then the train that leaves this evening from the north coast of France and travels to the Kashmir province in India has been equipped with compartments for each passenger to spend the night..?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so." The steward clearly found Holmes' questions peculiar, but he answered them anyhow with the utmost sincerity.

"Are those compartments booked beforehand in a particular name or under a reference?"

"Yes, sir. A name is taken with the booking."

Holmes smiled triumphantly. Watson, who had been listening closely to the conversation, realised where Holmes was going and continued the questioning himself.

"Is that train from France on the same booking system as the ones going from this station?"

The man considered. "The journey to India is a long and expensive one, sir. There is a discount on the overall price if one purchases an indirect ticket from the office. The said ticket will provide you with a train from London to Portsmouth; a ship from Portsmouth to France; and another train from the north of France to India."

"Would you then be able to tell me the name of any person who had booked an indirect ticket from London Victoria station to the Kashmir province, India?"

"Yes, sir, I would."

Watson glanced at Holmes, and delivered the clinching question. "Has a ticket booking been made recently in the name of Irene Adler?"

Holmes nodded admiringly like a master to his most worthy apprentice as the steward rummaged through the records and checked his books for Irene's name.

"No, sir, I'm sorry. No tickets booked under that name and none for collection."

Watson's face fell. He was visibly deflated, but Holmes was not ready to give up the fight and he looked up sharply as another brainwave hit him.

"What about under the name of D.B Cambell?"

Watson looked at him bemusedly, but Holmes was quietly confident as the man checked through the records yet again.

"D.B Cambell, you say?" The man nodded as he held a booking slip to the light for easier reading. "Yes, sir, I have the record right here. D.B Cambell; three indirect tickets to Kashmir province, India, leaving on August the 21st." He scratched at the back of his neck with one hand. "Two of the tickets were sent to the given address by post."

"Excellent." Holmes smiled, satisfied. _Three _tickets... "And is the third ticket here in the office awaiting collection?"

"I believe so, sir, yes." The man nodded again.

"In that case, I would like to collect the said ticket."

"Very good, sir." The man placed a paper form and a fountain pen on the ledge in front of Holmes. "If you would sign on the dotted line, Mr Cambell?"

Watson very nearly groaned out loud. The office would need identification, of course, and they had none. Watson was not even sure if D.B Cambell was a real person. If it wasn't enough that Irene had abandoned them with one ticket still to collect, she had left them no means to get hold of it. Holmes, however, seemed undeterred.

"Of course." He took up the pen and scribbled a signature. Watson glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Holmes had signed the paper 'D.B Cambell'.

"Forgive me," Watson said with a touch of amusement, "But how is taking a man's signature for his word a legitimate form of security in these matters?"

"We take a copy of the customer's signature when the tickets are booked," the man explained as he took the form from Holmes. "When the customer arrives to collect the tickets from the office, we take another copy of the signature and compare it to the first." He shook his head. "It's not an infallible method, sir, but it has proved to be extremely effective."

"I see." Watson's worries were stirred yet again at the steward's words. Surely not even the great Sherlock Holmes could hope to imitate a signature to perfection without even casting eye on the original..? And so it was with bated breath that Watson watched the steward draw the form back behind the glass and compare it to a second form he kept on the desk inside.

"Very good, sir." It took a great deal of self-control for Watson to keep his jaw clamped shut when he heard the steward's words. If one thing was true about Holmes, it was that Watson never ceased to be amazed by him.

"Thank you." Holmes took the gold-edged ticket that the steward passed through the gap in the glass. As they walked back towards the platform and the awaiting train, Holmes handed the ticket to Watson.

"Holmes," Watson said slowly. "Are you going to explain to me how you managed to forge the correct signature on that document? I assume D.B Cambell is a pseudonym of Irene Adler's?"

"Correct," Holmes said, "A pseudonym that seems to be connected to this case in particular. I have never heard of her using it before..."

"But how on Earth did you imitate her signature to such an accurate degree?"

"Elementary." Watson was maddened by the brevity of Holmes' answers to his questioning. "Before I learned the details of the case, Irene sent me a letter under the alias of D.B Cambell with no specified gender. When I first discovered the real person behind the name, I thought it was nothing more than a false identity to throw me off track. Now I believe the continued use of the same name is a message of sorts...A signal, perhaps?"

"A trigger?" Watson suggested.

"Exactly. Irene deliberately used this name again with the tickets rather than another because she knew that I and only I would recognise it to be her."

"And the signature?" Watson prompted. They were nearing the train now, Watson glancing up at the station clock as the hands slid forwards to show ten minutes to ten.

"Irene signed the letter as D.B Cambell using a personalised signature. It was all too simple for one to memorise its form and practice signing the name should its use be required in future."

Watson shook his head, wondering why he was not surprised. Indeed, there was no time to be surprised as they had reached the open door of the first carriage where a concierge in was waiting to view their tickets.

"Thank you very much, sirs, enjoy your journey." He tipped his hat and stepped back to allow them entry. Holmes sauntered off at once, turning a right into a long corridor. Watson just stood and watched him. Within thirty seconds, Holmes was back again. He refused to meet Watson's eye, and the latter smiled triumphantly as he faced the concierge again.

"Would you be able to direct us to our seats?"

"Certainly, sir." The concierge examined their tickets and pointed along the carriage. "Second carriage from the end; that's two doors down. The fourth row of seats is yours."

Struggling not to laugh at the disgruntled expression on the face of his companion, Watson opened the door at the end of the carriage. Before long, he couldn't help himself any longer and started to laugh.

"You know, there is no shame in asking for directions, Holmes..."

"I am quite able to direct myself."

"Clearly." Watson rolled his eyes. "I read in the Sunday paper once, a statement from a young woman who was completely overcome when 'Scotland Yard Luminary' Inspector Lestrade stopped simply to ask her for directions."

"Your point being?"

"Whether you like it or not, Holmes, Lestrade is one of the most commended officers the Yard has ever seen," said Watson. "And even _he_ has swallowed his pride on at least one occasion and asked for directions from a passer-by."

Holmes snorted. "And I say that if Lestrade took the time to trust his own sense of direction, perhaps he would arrive at just one crime scene before the press have had a chance to intervene..."

Watson pulled open the second door and stepped first into the carriage the concierge had directed them to. At the far end, the vision that was Irene Adler stood up to greet them.

"Hello, boys!" Watson was struck first by the jovial tone of her American accent, and second by how very little material had been used to make up her dress. Although he did his best to quash the thoughts before they properly entered his mind, Watson found himself wondering what Mary would look like if she were to wear such a dress. He shook his head and focussed instead on the gold band that Irene wore on the ring-finger of her left hand; identical to the one on Holmes'.

"I have to say, I'm impressed." Irene flicked her loose hair over her shoulder and gestured for the men to sit down. "I was fully-prepared to come out and retrieve your ticket myself if you hadn't been able to figure it out..."

"D.B Cambell is not a name easily forgotten," Holmes said, examining his surroundings as he always did when entering an unfamiliar environment.

The carriage was finely painted on the inside with intricate pattern-work across the curved ceiling and down the walls. The floor was polished; the windows framed with red curtains and shiny brass girders. The seat on which Irene reclined was cased in red velvet. An identical seat, big enough for two people, was positioned opposite with a table in-between. Three glasses and an unopened bottle of wine sat on the table.

"I shan't pretend I know why you ordered an extra ticket." Watson broke the silence that had descended upon the group by directing his speech at Irene. "That really is extraordinary assumption, Miss Adler."

"I'm glad you think so, Doctor." Irene smiled. "'The Great Detective' never goes anywhere without his loyal sidekick. Believe me, it was logic; not guesswork."

Irene took up the bottle of wine and held it out to Holmes. "Would you, Sherlock?"

Never taking his eyes off Irene, Holmes removed the stopper from the bottle and poured three glasses. Once full, the glasses sat on the table between them; Holmes and Watson staring with conviction at Irene.

"Shall we drink, gentlemen?" Irene said finally, taking up her glass.

"You first." Holmes and Watson spoke simultaneously.

Irene's laugh was a merry tinkle matched with her most charming smile. She raised the glass to her lips and drank. "You know, this is never going to work if you two don't trust me..."

"I think you'll find trust has to be earned." Despite his cold demeanour, Watson was the next to drink. Holmes sat still, unmoving.

The truth of the matter was that Holmes' heightened senses were picking up the tension in the threesome in ways Watson was not. The ghost of that almost-kiss he and Irene had shared the previous week was staring him in the face every time he looked her way. Even when he averted his eyes, the scent of her perfume was strong enough to make him turn around again. He tried to focus on other things; less attractive things. But ultimately, it was Irene who dominated his thoughts that day. In a brief moment of madness, Holmes wondered if he would ever think of anything or any_one_ again...

"So...Shall we spend some time getting to know one another?" Watson smiled genially at Irene, sensing Holmes' discomfort but not even touching on the reason behind it.

Irene returned the smile as she sipped her wine. "After you, Doctor."

"Ladies first." Watson entwined his fingers and laid his hands on the table. "Where were you born?"

"New Jersey," Irene told him. "But I travelled for a few years after leaving school..."

Irene began to tell her tale, and Holmes lost concentration. It was not that he didn't find what Irene had to say interesting, but rather the fact that he knew her whole life-story as well (if not better) than he knew his own. He let his eyes wander out of the window as the train began to move and the station disappeared into the distance. He wasn't sure exactly how or why, but something about Irene Adler had really gotten under his skin. It was a sudden, new feeling; one Holmes was not used to experiencing, but one he always seemed to associate with Irene.

Sitting next to Holmes, Watson wondered what it was that seemed to bother his companion. At that moment, Irene tossed her hair again, and Watson caught the aroma of her perfume mixed with the feminine scent of her own skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Holmes shiver as the smell reached him too. Watson smiled amusedly, gleefully, to himself as the revelation hit. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes had a weakness? Could it be that that weakness was a woman? Watson's skills of deduction were nothing compared to Holmes', but he was a man very much in love and he recognised the signs. Though Holmes tried to conceal it, there was no mistaking the effect that Irene's presence had on him. Watson had always noticed the small signs of interest, but nothing of this calibre. It would appear that Holmes was suffering from an internal fight of epic proportions: a fight against himself and against his feelings.

Watson turned back to Irene, taking another sip of wine as he listened to her story, and making up his mind to keep a very close eye on both Holmes _and_ Irene as the weeks went past.


	7. Beds, Brushes and Lessons in French

**Author's Note: Again, apologies for the lateness of this chapter and the unbelieveably long time it's been since the last update. Know that backlog of GCSE revision is no excuse,  
but there you are! Hope this is up to scratch...I've had to use a bit of author's licence when describing the railroad in the first paragraph seeing as I don't actually think such a railroad exists, but was hoping you'd let it slide! =D Enjoy, and please feel free to review as any feedback is very much appreciated! **

* * *

Deep in the forests of Eastern Europe ran a railway of great size and grandeur. It was the largest ever built and ran all the way from the north coast of France; through Europe and on into Asia. The journey would take nearly two and a half weeks from the moment the train left the station in Calais, France. Even then, it would not take Holmes, Watson and Irene all the way to their destination in the Kashmir province but rather to a small station on the Indian border from where they would continue in a more 'traditional' fashion; the details of which Irene had so far refused to reveal.

The train was comfortable with private sleeping quarters for the highest-paying customers. Irene had ordered the very best; booking two luxury compartments with enough living space for herself and her two companions.

"It's very nicely furnished," Watson commented as –armed with bags, trunks and cases- they made their way down the train corridor towards their accommodation.

"You expect anything less, Doctor?" Irene held just one bag: her own purse hung delicately over one arm. Watson and Holmes had two bags each and a French porter followed behind, pushing a trolley laden with cases.

Holmes had not said a word since their arrival in France. Watson was used to his friend's strange moods, and did not bother to involve him in conversation; safe in the knowledge that it would pass given time.

"Eleven A and Eleven B," Watson quoted, reading the brass numbers fastened to the outside of each door they passed along the corridor. He turned to the porter who was flanking them. "I believe these are our rooms..?"

The man stared at him blankly, and Watson wondered for a moment if he had said something dim-witted. "Are these our rooms?" he rearticulated. Still, the man looked at him as one would look at an imbecile on the street.

Watson was beginning to think he was being made a fool of, and he was about to ask again when Holmes leaned over and whispered in the ear of his friend.

"Watson, it might help your cause if you were to use the boy's mother-tongue..." Holmes sounded undeniably amused, and Watson felt himself flush pink in the cheeks. He could see nothing in particular that would indicate they were in a foreign country. In fact, the differences between here and home were so slight that Watson had momentarily forgotten that they were in France and that the locals (including the unfortunate porter) would only be able to speak French.

With an irritating smile, Holmes took over and began a fluid conversation of French with the concierge. After a few moments and to Watson's great surprise, Irene joined in also. It was most unnerving for Watson; watching his two companions talking whilst having no understanding of what they were saying. Most aggravating of all was when all three turned to look at him, and burst into a brief peal of laughter. Watson waited as patiently as he could manage, tapping his cane against the floor and glancing every-so often at his pocket watch. Finally, Holmes turned away from the porter and stared, wide-eyed and innocent, back at Watson.

"He says these are our rooms."

The porter stepped past Holmes (for the corridor was easily wide enough for two men to pass) and opened the door of room Eleven A with a small key which he then handed to Watson. He spoke a few words in French, which Holmes translated into English for Watson's benefit.

"He says this is the room for the gentleman."

The door to room Eleven B was unlocked and the key handed this time to Irene. Another few words were spoken in French.

"He says..." Holmes trailed off. He fixed the porter with a hard stare and asked him (in French) to repeat the phrase. The porter did so, and Holmes' expression of confusion changed to one of indignation at what he was hearing. He turned blazing eyes upon Irene who was smiling at him, her head tipped to one side.

"What did he say, Holmes?" Watson asked, keen to know what had been said. Holmes did not answer, his gaze never dropping from Irene's.

"He said," Irene spoke up helpfully, "That _this_ is the room for the happy couple!"

As Watson fought desperately with the urge to laugh at his friend's expense, the French porter smiled graciously at Irene and spoke briefly, indicating her hand. Watson noticed the enormous diamond on her finger, and realised the porter was complimenting her ring. Irene laughed and spoke back. Whatever she was saying, it appeared to be having a rather nasty effect on Holmes; whose expression gave him the appearance of one who had the source of a foul smell just beneath his nose.

Irene slinked down the corridor and slipped her arm through Holmes'. The detective's whole body was rigid, and he neither fought the advance nor embraced it. It seemed (to Watson's great delight) that Holmes had finally run out of both options and words.

"I was just explaining that you imported my ring especially from Paris," Irene said smoothly, batting her thick brown eyelashes at Holmes. "Didn't you, sweetie? You said it reminded you of me..."

Holmes still appeared to be in shock. His stiff nod and forced smile towards the porter was enough to send Watson over the edge. For the first time in what felt like an age, Watson began to laugh heartily. The concierge startled slightly and turned questioning eyes upon Holmes.

"Watson here is my brother-in-law," Holmes said. It took Watson a second to realise he was speaking in English and not in French. "We keep him around to carry the bags. He thinks himself to be something of a comedian, but there is a _very_ fine line between the amusing and the idiotic..."

"Hey!"

"Hay is something that horses eat, Watson," Holmes said superciliously.

"Shall we go in?" Irene interrupted. She handed the porter a few coins as a tip and stepped back to allow him to wheel the trolley of baggage through the door of room Eleven B. It was clear that the majority of the trunks, cases and bags were Irene's, whilst Holmes and Watson had a trunk and three cases between them.

"Excellent idea, Irene," Watson said with a smile. "I was just thinking the same myself...Great minds think alike!" He tugged one of the bags from Holmes' grip and stepped smartly through the door of room Eleven A. "You know, it must run in the family. Who knew a brother and a sister could be so alike? Good day, brother-in-law... I hope your journey is an _amusing_ one..."

Watson slammed the door firmly in Holmes' face. The concierge disappeared back onto the train platform in search of new passengers to aid, and Holmes was left alone once again with Irene.

'The Woman' was already inside their room, rummaging through a large trunk which she had placed on top of the double bed that was the defining feature of the room. The motion of the train meant that all the furniture had to be secured to the ground, but the room was equipped with everything you would need for a two-week voyage. There was even a small door that led to a flushing toilet and a sink with a running water supply.

Holmes did not say anything, but lifted his own (much smaller) case onto one of the two bolstered armchairs and began to remove his items of clothing.

"There's plenty of room in the closet if you need it, _dear_..."

Holmes stood stock still for a number of seconds before he carried on unpacking his clothes onto the chair as if Irene had never spoken.

"I said there's room in the closet for your clothes..."

"You want me to go to the closet..."

"Only to put away your clothes."

"No, that isn't the reason." Holmes hung a black cravat over the back of the armchair, emptied the remainder of his packed possessions onto the seat cushions and pushing the suitcase underneath the chair. He straightened up and blinked at Irene. "There are closets only in the inner-walls of the train owing to the fact that the outside walls," he stepped to the wall and rapped with his knuckles, "Are not thick enough to accommodate a closet. That leaves approximately twenty square feet of closet space all together along the inside wall; a space not nearly big enough for you to fit the contents of those trunks, let alone leave some space over for my garments." Holmes raised and lowered an eyebrow, letting Irene know once and for all that the game was still in play. "I would expect you hid an item or 'surprise' on the topmost shelf of the closet that you would like me to find when I open the closet door."

"So now you know, aren't you going to find it?" Irene's expression was deadpan.

Holmes smiled triumphantly. "Only for you, Miss Adler," he said. "Only for you..." He went to the right-hand closet and swung the door open. There was a clothes rail and several shelves, but as far as Holmes could see, nothing out of the ordinary. He checked the second cupboard door, again finding nothing but empty shelves. The third and final closet was as vacant as the first two, and Holmes was torn between confusion and a strange sense of foreboding; a sense that multiplied in strength when he saw the hint of a wicked smile gathering on Irene's lips.

Holmes guessed what had happened as soon as the smile appeared, and he cursed himself for not realising sooner. From inside one of her cases, Irene drew a wrapped box which she placed carefully on Holmes' armchair.

"I believe it's your birthday, detective?" She gave him a dazzling smile. "I was pretty sure you'd work out the closet thing and go take a look...Which is why I hid your present out here!"

"You've been having words with Doctor Watson..." Holmes was not usually one for gifts, but a gift from Irene Adler was another thing altogether. He found himself almost excited with anticipation as to what was inside the box.

"Watson said it was your birthday so I picked something up in the French market after we got to Calais."

"You're welcome!" Holmes snapped his head around when he heard Watson's voice resounding through the walls from his adjacent room. Apparently the walls here were relatively thin...

Holmes nodded, taking up the package and examining it closely. Where Irene was concerned, you could never be too careful...

"Aren't you going to open it?" Irene was removing pearl-buttoned shoes from the trunk and storing them on the shelves, watching Holmes closely at the same time.

Holmes considered. The package seemed harmless enough. If it had been Watson presenting the gift, He would have had no trouble in rejecting it. But surely it was rude to turn down a gift from a lady...

He slipped the black ribbon off the box and lifted the lid, instinctively preparing himself for compressed gas or minor explosives to be unleashed the second the lid was lifted. But no unpleasant surprises awaited him beneath the lid of the box. Instead, he found a layer of white tissue-paper and beneath that, a fine silver-plated brandy flask. He turned it over and over in his hands, holding it to the light so he could see his initials engraved on the side.

"Just a little something." Holmes had not noticed Irene was standing so close to him, but as he turned around, he felt her arm brush his for the briefest of seconds. He was prepared by now for the sudden jolt of electricity that shot through him when Irene made contact, but no more used to handling the experience.

"Thank you." Holmes found his voice and nodded to her. He could think of no more an obliging response, but somehow he felt as though the message had been received. He tucked the flask inside his jacket, and then settled into an armchair to allow Irene to unpack the remainder of her possessions. Holmes would have ordinarily offered to assist, but had a feeling that the gesture would not be appreciated. Instead he stayed quiet, staring aimlessly out of the window and wondering for the thousandth time what it was that had led to his being here in the first place...

For the first time since their arrival, Holmes realised what it was that was bothering him about this room. He cleared his throat loudly and looked at Irene, taking care to avoid looking into the honey-traps that were her eyes.

"Might I ask, Miss Adler, where I am going to sleep?"

Irene looked at him as if he'd asked the world's most ridiculous question. She glanced over at the double bed. "...In the bed...?"

"I see only one bed."

"...Yeah."

"In that case, where will _you_ be sleeping?"

Irene did not answer. She giggled silently, breathing out a flurry of air as if forging shyness. Then she turned her deep blue eyes towards the bed.

"Share a bed?" Holmes' voice was calm but laced with shocked incredulity. "You want me to share a bed...with you?"

"We _are_ married now, Sherlock..." Irene twiddled the gold band on her finger. Holmes' own ring seemed almost to throb in recollection, but he ignored the feelings.

"No, you see, Irene, that is just it: We are _not_ married, not really. This is a sham of a marriage that has neither been confirmed by the church or by the consent of both parties. In fact, I find it incredible that you can even _call_ it a marriage!"

"So you'd rather it come out that you shared a bed with an unmarried woman?" Irene was taking stabs in the dark as to what would best rub Holmes up the wrong way. "The press would love that one...That you'd begun your sordid ascent into hell with a night spent with a woman who was not your wife..." She flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Believe me, it's easier for everyone if they thing we're married."

"Father Gordon has informed me on several occasions that my place at the right-hand side of the Devil has already been reserved in advance," Holmes said loftily. "And the press shall print no such stories because we shall _not_ be sharing a bed."

"So you'll be sleeping in the armchair or next door with Doctor Watson?"

"He'll be in the armchair!" Watson's voice came through the wall once again.

There was a long pause as Holmes stood with his eyes closed, before taking a deep breath and staring stonily at Irene.

"I'll be in the armchair."

* * *

Night fell, and when Holmes returned from a glass of scotch next door with Watson, Irene was already dressed for bed. Holmes averted his eyes as he saw her sitting by a tall mirror, brushing her long hair. She saw his reflection in the glass and smiled.

"Evening, husband of mine..."

"Miss Adler." Holmes retreated to his armchair, trying to ignore the fact that her white nightdress left far too little to the imagination. The cabin was silent aside from the constant noise of the wheels skimming the train tracks and a peculiar scraping sound as Irene drew the brush through and through her thick chestnut curls.

Holmes felt himself drifting into an uneasy slumber, rocked by the repetitive noises and the steady motion of the train. Scotch always made him sleepy, and he was just dropping off when the train hit a stretch of uneven track and everything in the cabin bounced. Holmes' eyes snapped open as he heard a small shriek of surprise. He jumped to his feet instinctively to help when he saw that Irene had toppled from her chair onto the floor.

"No, don't worry, I'm fine!" She struggled to her feet, but lost her balance and fell again. She went down hard this time, hitting the back of her head hard on the corner of the table.

"Where does it hurt?" Irene's vision had been dazzled by her fall, but she could easily make out the concerned expression on Holmes' face as he stood over her.

"Just my head..." Irene smiled uneasily and allowed Holmes to pull her to her feet. She screwed up her eyes and rubbed absent-mindedly at the back of her skull.

"Shall I fetch Watson?"

"No, I'm OK." She sat back down on the chair from which she had fallen, and then frowned. "Did you see me drop my hairbrush?"

Holmes stooped and picked up the brush from the floor. He twisted it in his hands, wondering where the sudden thoughts that were rushing through his mind were coming from and whether or not it would be wise to act on them.

Almost as if she had read his mind, Irene tipped her head to one side, still rubbing at the sore patch at the back. "Sherlock, would you mind?"

Holmes looked down at the brush in his hand and raised his eyebrows.

"I need to finish brushing it, but I'm scared I'll hurt my head," Irene explained. "Please...I know you'll be gentle..."

Never before in his life had Holmes heard such an ill-conceived excuse for forced bodily contact. There was no sign of Irene's famous seductive smile on her lips, but the glint in her eye remained the same. Exactly what she was after, Holmes was unsure. But he had a feeling it had very little to do with the brushing of her hair!

Holmes was in the middle of constructing his polite rejection of her request when he found himself suddenly reaching out for her with the brush and pressing it into her silken locks. Irene herself shivered slightly as the scent of tobacco smoke and scotch washed over her. Holmes closed his eyes briefly as his hands moved to work through her hair with his fingers after the brush had been through. The touch of her hair was irresistible, and he found himself wondering if the touch of her skin would have the same effect. And with every stroke of her hair and every breath that left her lungs, Holmes cursed the fact that he had acted on impulse. In truth, he wondered how long he would be able to hold out before something happened between them- something he would ultimately come to regret. Surely no man's self-control was great enough that he could resist her forever..? But for the sake of his sanity, Holmes was determined to try. There could be no other way.

When Irene was satisfied, Holmes set down the brush and withdrew to his armchair. Neither said a word; not even when Irene dimmed the lamps and climbed into the bed. Holmes had his eyes closed and all was silent once again.

"Night, Sherlock..."

Holmes opened one eye, not without a touch of amusement. "Goodnight."

Silence again. It lasted for several minutes.

"Night..."

"Goodnight."

When Holmes listened carefully, he could hear Doctor Watson preparing for bed in the adjacent room. There was the sound of water running down the sink, and...

"Night..."

Holmes opened both eyes this time. "_Goodnight_, Irene."

Watson was whistling now: one of Holmes' favourite violin pieces in a different octave. Holmes moved his fingers in time with the notes, accompanying Watson on an imaginary violin with eyes closed and a small smile on his face. They were just nearing the second verse when...

"Night."

Holmes sprang bolt upright, almost as if he had been electrocuted. As the detective rose to his feet and strode purposefully towards the bed where she laid, Irene thought for a minute she'd gone too far- although it was too dark to see the exact expression on Holmes' face, she doubted it would be one of joy. In fact, when he reached the edge of the bed and leaned over her, she felt an underlying feeling of fear; fear of the man whom she suddenly found herself alone with. Holmes knew it had been a harmless joke...didn't he? She had thought she had the grips of the English sense of humour, but perhaps she had been mistaken.

She was about to offer an apology when Holmes moved, quick as lightning, and pinned her shoulders to the bed with his hands. Instinct told Irene to struggle, but rather than the capricious Holmes snarling or even striking her as she had for a moment feared, it was his lips that pressed down on her forehead in an almost affectionate kiss.

"Goodnight, Irene." Holmes returned to his armchair, leaving Irene with a tingling patch on her forehead and a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach.

For a long time after Holmes' last words to her, Irene lay in bed wide awake, just staring at the ceiling. With every day that passed, the handsome detective seemed to occupy a larger portion of her brain. And her mind was befuddled further by the fact that man in question was sleeping just a few metres away. Ever since their last meeting over two years ago, Sherlock Holmes had danced in and out of her daydreams like a passing cloud across the sky. She had considered lying about her predicament in order to make him more compliant, but Holmes was the one man who she could keep nothing from. He knew her too well. More than that, Irene honestly did not have the strength to lie anymore. Especially not to a man who haunted her nights now as well as her days. Did he think of her as she did so often of him? How much more could she take? So many questions and only one obvious way to answer them... Irene lay awake until she heard Holmes snoring softly from his armchair. Only then did she allow herself the release of sleep, knowing that it made her appear vulnerable and for some reason not wanting Holmes to see her that way.

She could still feel his lips on her forehead as she drifted off.


	8. Restaurant

By day three of the journey, it was becoming clear that Holmes was neither a willing passenger nor a happy one. Watson watched his friend carefully as the days unfolded. Their years living together had taught the doctor a lot about his Holmes' habits; both as a detective and a man. And he knew that when Holmes got bored, it was a worthy precaution to leave him to his own devices until it passed. Unfortunately for Watson, though, this was not all together possible on a train bound for India. And by the middle of the third, day, he was beginning to regret volunteering himself to come along.

As the sun was setting over the mountains of eastern Austria, Watson was sat at the writing desk in his cabin with a pen in his hand; the ink from which was splattering every time the train jogged on the track. As Watson glanced up from his paper with a sigh, his eye was caught by Holmes who was stood beside the bed. Holmes had his head through the open window, his dark curly hair ruffling in the intense wind thrown up by the motion of the train.

Watson watched his friend for a few seconds, before reaching for his walking stick which sat beside the chair. He leaned over and poked Holmes in the lower back with the cane. Holmes withdrew his head. When he turned around, it was to be met by Watson's gaze of part condemnation, part amusement.

"Holmes, I assume you realise how dangerous it is to put your head outside the window of a moving train..?"

"Yes."

"And...You clearly don't care...?"

"No."

"Right." Watson laid down his cane and returned to his writing. Holmes strode away from the window, kicking his heels, and came to a stop behind Watson so he could look over his shoulder. Watson looked up from the table again. "Do you have any idea how much it irritates me when you do that?"

"What are you writing?"

"A letter to Mary." Watson nibbled absent-mindedly on the end of his pen as he searched for the right words to put on the paper.

"Do you suffer from writer's block?"

"No, but there isn't a huge amount to write to her about." Watson smiled wryly. "Though I'm sure it would amuse her to learn that Irene and yourself are sharing a room!"

"I can assure you, she would not find it nearly as amusing as Irene seems to be." Holmes pulled a chair next to Watson, sat for the best part of five seconds, and then rose to his feet again and began to pace. He did not attempt further conversation, so Watson turned to and began again on his letter. When it was done, he sealed the envelope and began to print his home address on the front.

Holmes said no more, but began to stuff tobacco into the barrel of his pipe. Just as he pressed a match into the top and took an initial puff, Watson leaned over and snatched the pipe from between Holmes' lips, clamping a thumb over the top to halt the smouldering, and then tipping the tobacco and ashes out of the train window. "If you insist upon smoking that thing, would you do so in your own room and not in mine..?"

Holmes lowered his gaze from Watson's as he took back his pipe. "Irene is in my room," he said.

"And she objects to you smoking?" Watson smiled to himself, finding it amusing that Holmes referred to the cabin as 'his' room rather than 'our' room when speaking of his sleeping arrangements with Irene.

"No."

"You don't wish to smoke in front of her?"

"No."

"Then why not do it next door?" Watson asked, exasperated.

Holmes looked up from stuffing the barrel of his pipe with fresh tobacco, despite Watson's complaints. "Spending nights in the same room as Irene Adler is quiet enough without spending every waking moment of the day with her also."

Watson's eyes gleamed as he spied a perfect opportunity for wordplay. "Holmes, do you and Irene not get along?"

"We get along fine."

"Then why the reluctance to spend time together?"

"Why should we?" Watson noticed Holmes was absent-mindedly twisting the gold wedding band around and around his finger as he spoke. "Miss Adler is a client of mine, and as you well know, Watson, I do not converse unnecessarily with clients."

Watson pulled his chair out again, sitting in it backwards so his legs were on either side of the seat and the back was supporting his chest as he leaned forwards to look at Holmes. "I never understood your standoffish behaviour towards clients," he said. "But in the case of Irene Adler, I can wholly appreciate why you would wish to avoid idle conversation. The tension must be unbearable for you."

"Tension?" Holmes reached into his pocket for a book of matches to light his pipe.

"Do not even _think_ about lighting that," Watson said sternly. "So help me, Holmes, I will throw the whole pipe out of the train window!"

Holmes returned the matches to his pocket, the expression on his face so close to a childlike scowl that Watson almost laughed.

"Tension." Watson repeated himself once the matches were safely back in Holmes' pocket. "It would be a waste of your breath to deny it, Holmes."

"I don't know what you mean."

"No, I don't expect you do." Watson rolled his eyes. "For such an esteemed mind, Holmes, you are remarkably impervious at times."

Holmes did not comment further. He had always hated to admit he was wrong, but what made matters worse was that Watson knew the truth.

Before either man could say more, though, the door swung open without a knock and Irene stood in their midst.

"Evening, boys." She was dressed to the nines in a deep fuchsia dress with a slight slit up the leg and cleavage quite visible above the cut of the neckline. Looking her up and down, Watson found himself feeling quite sorry for Holmes. He may have been socially inept, but he was still a man. And Irene was, without a doubt, unbelievably beautiful.

"Good evening, Irene." Watson smiled pleasantly once it became clear that Holmes was not going to speak. "What do we owe this pleasure?"

"We're stopping at the next station in around thirty minutes," Irene said. "I thought we could go out and get some dinner. Plus, I know you've got a letter to post, doctor..."

"Fabulous." Watson nodded. "I'll change at once."

"We'll meet in twenty minutes," Irene said. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, batting her eyelids in Holmes' direction as she left the room; an action that did not go unnoticed by Watson.

Watson went to the closet and pulled out a dinner jacket and a clean shirt. He glanced over at Holmes. The detective was stood by the window, staring out at the passing Austrian countryside but not taking in its detail. He cleared his throat, and Holmes turned 'round.

"Are you not planning on changing?"

"There seems hardly any point seeing as how I shant be coming to dinner either."

"Don't be absurd, Holmes," Watson said brusquely. "There won't be dinner served onboard the train tonight...Surely you don't mean to miss supper..?"

"That _was_ my intention..."

"Look here, Holmes, I understand you are intimidated by Irene, but..."

"I am _not _intimidated by _that_ woman."

"Then prove it," Watson said stubbornly. "Go to your room, change, and then meet Irene and myself for dinner in twenty minutes time!"

As slowly as he could manage without riling Watson further, Holmes slunk off to the adjoining room and pushed the door open. Holmes was hardly prepared for what awaited him behind the door, for when he stepped across the threshold, it was to be met by Irene stood in the centre of the room. Irene...wearing only a white corset, stockings and white lace pantyhose.

"Miss Adler!" The pupils of Holmes' eyes dilated and he averted his gaze away from the woman before him; increasingly aware of a thin line of perspiration that was gathering beneath the collar of his shirt. "I apologise, I should have knocked."

"On the door of your own room?" Irene smiled, sorting methodically through the drawers and rails of her closet in search of a dress or pair of shoes. "Don't sweat it, Sherlock, I'm nearly done. I just needed a dress..."

"I would have thought that what you had on before would have been sufficient." Holmes edged his way around Irene, trying not to look, but at the same time realising how truly difficult it was. He heard her shuffle across the room and step behind a changing partition. Only then did Holmes look up from the floor and begin to search through his own clothes for a suitable outfit.

"Wear the black tails," Irene called. "Black tails, white shirt and that cravat I like."

Holmes looked up. He had suspected but not realised that Irene was watching him. He did not answer, but turned his attention instead to the black tailcoat Irene had mentioned. He already wore a white shirt and so simply exchanged the casual jacket he wore for the one he held in his hand.

"Sherlock, could you lace me up..?"

Holmes swallowed. "I'm sorry?"

"Could you lace me up?" Irene emerged from behind the partition. It took Holmes a moment to realise that the back of her dress hung down, unlaced and that her back and shoulders were completely exposed.

"I suppose so." Knowing full well that karma would have a repercussion waiting for him, Holmes stepped closer to Irene and reached out for her back; trying his hardest to ignore the soft feel of her skin beneath his hands.

Holmes knew how to lace a dress; or rather, he knew how to _un_lace one. An encounter years before with a French chambermaid meant he was well-versed in that particular skill, and Holmes reasoned that if he was able to unlace a dress, one would simply have to work in reverse.

Pulling on the strings with one hand and using the other to push Irene's lower back away from him to tighten them, Holmes began to lace her dress.

Irene herself was suffering from a similar struggle. She had always enjoyed playing games with men, but this was different. She was not just enjoying the reaction she got from Holmes with her trickery; her amusement had progressed to the stage where she was actually thirsting for Holmes; for the smell of his skin or the warmth of his body. At that precise moment, the detective's hands brushed over a particularly sensitive patch of skin on Irene's shoulder, and she shuddered not out of disgust, but out of pleasure. His hands were a marvel, she thought. The skin on them was rough and worked, but gentle and soft at the same time. The feel of them ghosting her skin was almost enough to send her wild. Almost. If Irene Adler possessed one trait of character, it was steadfast self-control. Holmes could not know the effect he had on her. That would spoil the fun!

"Thanks." Irene smiled warmly at Holmes when her dress was laced, taking care to brush against him as she swept towards the closet once again in search of shoes. Holmes watched her go and breathed out in relaxation as the gap which separated them increased to an extent that he could think rationally once again.

"You are quite welcome." Even though he knew he shouldn't, Holmes stood still, just watching Irene as she slipped a pair of heeled shoes onto her tiny, dainty feet and stood up off the bed.

"Are we all ready?" She took a clutch bag from the nightstand and slinked her way towards the door.

"I think so."

Irene paused in the doorway and looked Holmes up and down. She frowned suddenly and stepped towards him, reaching out for his neck and throat.

Instinctively, Holmes stopped her wrist with an open palm and forced it down and out of its offensive position. Irene sighed and smiled.

"I only wanted to straighten the cravat. The knot's come a bit loose..." Using her free hand and before Holmes could stop her, Irene reached for his neck and untied the cravat. Suddenly being so close to him again, Irene could feel her heart pounding in her chest. And what made matters worse was that she was sure Holmes could hear it. He avoided her eye throughout the proceedings, and this made matters easier. Whether he was too embarrassed to meet her gaze or whether he did not quite trust his own restraint, Irene did not know, but either way, it was becoming clear now that she was spiralling out of control. She had to get a hold on herself before something catastrophic took place, and she did this by tugging the knot of Holmes' cravat tightly and tucking it away back inside his shirt.

"All done," she managed, though she had feared the powers of speech had left her. "That wasn't really so dreadful, was it?"

"Indeed it wasn't." Holmes felt Irene take his arm and lead him towards the door. He raised an eyebrow. "Might I ask though, why it is necessary for you to hold my arm?"

"We're a married couple, Sherlock," Irene reminded him with her merry laugh. "Let's start acting like one!"

Holmes tried not to think about the attributes that Irene may or may not have been referring to when she had said they must act like a married couple. But as Irene led both he and Watson from the train and off into the streets of Vienna, Holmes could not help but wonder what kind of game Irene was playing and who would emerge as the eventual victor. There were several directions in which their dalliances could lead them...and not one of them appealed to Holmes in the slightest.

* * *

"How about in here?" Irene indicated an understated log-cabin restaurant situated on the east side of the plaza in central Vienna. The city centre was just a ten minute walk from the little station the train had drawn into, but it was like two different worlds side by side. The night air brought with it a definite chill, but it was the height of summer and the weather was still pleasant enough to be outside without an overcoat. People streamed from all sides; tourists, locals and salesmen alike, gathering in the plaza to meet friends or swap stories. Many of the restaurants lining the square were bustling with people, but the one Irene now led them to appeared deserted. The windows were blacked out so it was impossible to see what went on behind the doors.

"_Helga's,_" Watson read aloud from the sign above the restaurant door. "I suppose it looks a good a spot as any for a bite to eat..."

"It's famous in the city," Irene told him. "I've heard it's very good." She gave Holmes a smile which was only for the purpose of irritation. "What do you think, darling?"

Watson smirked yet again at the pained look on Holmes' face as he returned her smile and nodded his approval. Holmes playacting as Irene's husband was turning out to be more entertaining than even Watson could have hoped for.

Holmes noticed the smug smile on Watson's face and turned his back to hold the door open for Irene.

"Thank you." Irene stepped through the door with Holmes close behind her. As Watson stepped up to enter the restaurant, Holmes let go of the door and swung it back with some vehemence. The wood surface narrowly missed smashing Watson full in the face as he dodged around it and into the main lobby of the restaurant.

Watson was not quite sure what he had been expecting when he had seen the restaurant from a distance. But he was certain his expectations had been nothing like the reality. The sheen of cigarette smoke behind the restaurant door was thicker than the smog over London following the Revolution. Watson breathed in and began to cough violently as the unaffected Holmes and Irene watched him amusedly.

Working with Holmes had taught Watson that it was always wise to survey one's surroundings before settling in. There was a scantily-clad Austrian girl behind the bar and several equally promiscuous waitresses bringing trays of drinks to tables occupied by groups of grubby middle-aged men clutching pints of beer and measures of spirits. As he watched a waitress pass a table of punters, Watson was not sure he liked the look the men were giving her- leering, like she was some sort of possession. In fact, he could have sworn he saw one man lean over and slap the backside of a passing girl in a black dress, but before he could turn and look properly, the girl had vanished and the man was back to his drinking.

A girl dressed in blue led Holmes, Irene and Watson to a table near the back of the restaurant and ushered them into their seats. Watson was still examining his surroundings; noticing with an amused smile that Holmes was doing exactly the same thing. Only Irene sat, relaxed and unmoving in her chair.

"Could we get some drinks please?" Watson said rather loudly. A white-faced barmaid produced three pints of bitter from behind the bar and set them down, none to gently, on the surface of the table. "Thank you, ma'am." Watson nodded respectfully to the woman, and was halfway to being shocked when, instead of smiling or walking away, the barmaid winked at him quite brazenly.

Irene was smirking as she got to her feet. "Excuse me, boys, I'll only be a second..." She walked away from the table and sat down instead beside a group of the Austrian men.

"Shouldn't we go over there with her?" Watson was concerned. "They look awfully uncivilised..."

"I'm sure they are only talking."

"Does Irene speak German?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Holmes was clearly uninterested, and Watson took the time to examine the men Irene was with more closely. There were about five or six of them; all tall, sturdy and tattooed with long hair and scars up and down their arms from various fights and brawls in bars across the city. As Watson watched, the one closest to Irene stretched out a hand and slid it slowly down the back of her dress, continuing onto the folds of her skirt before she slapped it away with a merry laugh. Watson's mouth dropped open as the thug produced a handful of coins and attempted to press them into Irene's hand while trying to caress her cheek with the other.

"Holmes." Watson nudged his companion. "Holmes...This isn't a restaurant is it?"

"What do you mean by that, Watson?"

"This is not a restaurant." Watson pointed to the men trying to slip Irene money. "Holmes, this is a brothel."

"A brothel?"

"A brothel," Watson repeated. "A lodging whereby young girls sell themselves to men for..."

"I am aware of the dictionary definition of 'brothel'." Holmes -who had his elbows on the table and his chin balanced on his folded hands- was deep in thought. "That is to assume its meaning hasn't changed since the summer of 18-"

"Holmes, I _beg_ of you not to finish that sentence!" Watson took a long gulp of his beer and looked again to where Irene was still deep in muffled conversation with a large bearded Austrian. "Anyway, isn't that _your_ 'wife' over there with those men? I think maybe you should intervene..."

"If I was really her husband, I would."

"I'd _love_ to see you try!" Holmes sat up straight. He hadn't even heard Irene sneak up behind him, but he certainly felt her lay a hand on his shoulder. The effect was that of ten-thousand volts of electricity through his veins!

"Interesting conversation?" Watson raised an eyebrow.

"The Austrians are great," Irene said spiritedly as she caught the eye of the barmaid and mouthed the word 'food'. "Don't understand a word they say, but they're still great people!"

"And I take it you didn't accept their offer of money for your 'services'?" Watson asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he finished his beer.

"Not that it's _any_ of your business if I did..." Irene smiled slightly. "But no. There's plenty of girls here. They can take their pick!"

"So I see..." Watson reached for Holmes' untouched beer, but the detective snatched it out of his grasp. "So...what exactly did 'tall, dark and hairy' over there want to speak with you about?"

The barmaid appeared with the plates of food before Irene could speak, but Watson had a feeling that she wouldn't have given him a direct answer anyhow. Dinner was a strong-smelling German sausage on a bed of sauerkraut. It looked as if it had seen better days, but Watson was starving and tucked in quite happily. A shadow loomed over him as he cut his food, and when he looked up, the barmaid was stood there watching him eat.

"May I help you, ma'am?"

The woman said a few words in German; words that Watson could not understand but that Irene seemed to find highly amusing. Before Watson could enquire, however, the barmaid had lifted a leg cocked at the knee and placed her foot in-between Watson's thighs on the chair. Watson's eyes widened considerably as he took in the shapely calves and lewd fishnet stockings.

"Holmes," Watson said calmly as the barmaid wound Watson's tie around her hand possessively and tugged him closer to her. "If I make it out of this alive, you are a dead man."

Holmes laughed out loud, sitting back in his chair to watch the show. "We are only responsible for our own actions, Watson..."

* * *

"Well, that was an enjoyable evening." The three were making their way back to the train through the streets of Vienna; taking a short cut Irene had suggested. Watson –as was his custom by now- walked a few paces ahead of Holmes and Irene. "I particularly enjoyed the part when that barmaid spat in my beer for telling her I was married!"

"It was _my_ beer," Holmes said. "And in your defence, Watson, she was a rather attractive barmaid..."

"I'm glad you had such a great evening, doctor." Irene couldn't help but smile. The look on Watson's face when the barmaid removed her stockings had been priceless.

"It's about to get better..." Watson had stopped still in the middle of the road. The other two drew level with him and looked along his line of sight. Standing at the end of the alleyway was the bearded Austrian who had petted Irene in the 'restaurant'. Watson looked closer and felt his heart sink. Not only was the man accompanied by two henchmen, he was carrying a sturdy-looking cudgel in his left hand.

"Does anybody have a revolver?" Watson whispered.

"No," Holmes answered, "I left it on the-"

"-Table in your room?" Watson rolled his eyes. "You surprise me..."

The thugs were coming closer now, closing down Holmes, Irene and Watson at a faster pace than they could back away.

"What do we do now?" Watson asked.

Holmes never took his eye off the assailants. "Well by my count, there are three of them and two of us..." He glanced at Watson. Clearly, he was discounting Irene deliberately. "Watson, which way do you swing?"

"Holmes, this is hardly the time for-"

"Left or right, Watson. Which do you want? Left or right?"

"Oh..."

"Let me make this simpler." The thugs were now less than fifteen metres away. "Do you want the cudgel or the two without?"

"I'll take the cudgel," Watson said, eying his blade concealed inside the cane he held in his hand. "And what of Irene?"

An enormous snapping noise broke out just behind them. Holmes and Watson whipped 'round so as to discover the source, but Irene was already in front of them. She had broken a section of rusting pipe from the line running up the side of a nearby building and was swinging it around her head as a weapon.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at Watson as they stepped forward to meet their fate. "Does that answer your question, Watson?"


	9. Ulterior Motives

**Author's Note: One quick plea...PLEASE don't kill me! :P Thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far! :) Enjoy!**

* * *

Holmes and Watson moved at the same instant, following Irene and diving into the fray. The thug with the cudgel took aim for Watson, but he dodged out of the way and drew the blade from inside his cane. Holmes dived low; driving a fist into his man's abdomen, but earning himself a heavy blow above his left eye.

Irene's metal piping caught the first man on the back of the head, rattling his skull with a blow that took all her strength to pull off. Unfortunately, the thug recovered rather too quickly and before Irene could raise the pipe for a second onslaught, he had stopped the pipe with an arm of steel and twisted it out of her hands.

Irene gasped in pain as her wrist jarred; twisted far around for her to hang on. She reached for the bladed hair pin that nestled in the bun on top of her head, but now the man had hold of her arm and she found herself pushed to the floor and unable to move; the man's entire weight crushing the air from her lungs.

Looking up from the onslaught of blows he was raining down upon his own man, Holmes saw Irene was in distress. He ducked the lazy jab thrown by his opponent and twisted the arm of Irene's captor behind his back. Using the momentary distraction, he plunged his elbow forwards into the man's neck. An instant build-up of blood rushed to the man's head and he collapsed to his knees, unconscious before he hit the floor.

"T...Thanks..." Irene breathed, massaging her wrist.

"Bite off a little more than you could chew, dearest?" Holmes' smile was a mixture of sarcasm and complacency as he helped Irene to her feet.

Brushing off the jolt that came with their touching, Holmes looked around for the other two assailants. During his and Irene's distraction, one of the two men had broken off his own metal weapon from the piping and now Watson was fighting both of them at the same time- his sleek blade blocking, jabbing and swiping as he tried to defend himself and attack simultaneously.

"He's got style," Irene murmured admiringly.

"Afghan War," Holmes replied, watching Watson carefully as he spoke. There seemed no need to intervene- the doctor appeared to be managing quite well by himself. "He served for several years until a knee injury rendered him useless for combat." Holmes pointed. "As you can see- tall, strong and very fast. A prime example of a military man, but notice the slight angle his right knee takes when compared to the other." He indicated the handsome cane Watson held in his right hand. "The walking stick conceals a blade but also serves a more practical purpose. Note the limp as he moves."

"Does it hurt him?" Irene asked.

"Only occasionally," Holmes replied. "But it has done nothing to decrease his speed..."

"Fast men aren't always the best," Irene said, and Holmes noticed the wicked gleam shine in her eyes once again. "I prefer a man who takes it slow... Men who finish too quickly are hardly worth bothering about again..."

Before Holmes could even begin to think of a suitable reply (and he was fairly confident that one did not exist), they were interrupted by a high-pitched scream and a fluid torrent of expletives in German. Watson's first man (the one with the cudgel) had dropped his weapon and was clutching at his leg from where he appeared to be bleeding quite profusely. There was blood on Watson's blade, and although he had not seen the attack, it was easy for Holmes to deduce that Watson had cut the leg to pose a distraction.

Watson spun around and aimed a hefty kick into the face of the first man. Another quick flick of the blade, and the second man was screaming; bleeding from the wrist that held his weapon. Watson clasped the hair on the back of the man's head and smashed his skull into the nearby brick wall. With both men unconscious and bleeding around him, Watson sheathed his blade and breathed out deeply; aiming a very disapproving look at Holmes.

"Feel free to step in anytime!"

"You were doing a fine job by yourself, old chap." Holmes patted Watson on the back and examined the three cataleptic assailants. "Though I do wish you hadn't knocked them both unconscious... I feel some questioning would be in order..."

Watson followed his friend's gaze and was surprised to see him staring not at the three men, but at Irene. She stared defiantly back at him; almost as if they shared a secret that Watson could not even begin to understand himself. Not for the first time, he felt awkward- like a spare part the other two had no real need of. As they made their way back through the streets of Vienna towards the train station, Watson found himself wondering whether coming along had been a good idea after all...

* * *

"The cut above your eye has split open...again!" Watson was violently mixing a bowl of disinfectant and dabbing it none-too-gently onto Holmes' face. There was a medical consultant onboard the train for passenger emergencies, but Holmes had made it clear he would see no other doctor but Watson. This suited the latter perfectly as it gave them an opportunity to talk.

"Do you remember what I said that time we spent the night in Scotland Yard's detention compound awaiting bail?" Watson asked.

"I remember you saying quite a number of things..."

"About my psychological health?" Watson sloshed disinfectant into Holmes' eye, ignoring his grunts of protest. "Perhaps it's escaped your notice, Holmes, but I think that my situation has worsened over the last two years."

"In what way?"

"I have left my home, my practice, my patients and my family to trek across Europe and Asia with you on a journey that has led me –after only three days- into a fight in an Austrian back alley and an unplanned rendezvous with a collection of German prostitutes!"

"Working women."

"What?"

"They are women, paid for a profession," Holmes said maddeningly. "The services for which they are paid make no odds; Watson, I'm surprised at you!"

"Do you want me to throw myself from this train, Holmes?" Watson asked in exasperation. "Is that what you want? Because, so help me God, I'll do it!"

Holmes said no more, and Watson continued his lament, beginning to stitch the gash on his companion's face.

"As much as it pains me, it has to be said that this is _insane_, Holmes!" As Watson grew more and more agitated, his movements became increasingly sloppy as he sewed. Holmes feared for his eyesight, but didn't dare interrupt. Where Watson was concerned, it was better to let him finish his tirade before trying to intervene...

"For heaven's sake, Holmes, it's enough of a mystery to my why _you_ are here; let alone why _I'm _here!" Watson set down his needle and thread, engaging his full attention in his argument. "You bluster along with no thought of the consequences, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you're being played like a stack of cards!"

"Played?" Holmes raised the eyebrow that was not thick with surgical thread. "Watson, I must admit, your confession comes as something of a surprise..."

Watson pointed to the wall that formed the partition between the two rooms occupied by their group. "_She_ is playing you. You think you know her, don't you, but I'll bet you haven't even scratched the surface. How long is it going to take you to realise that every word out of that woman's mouth is a lie?"

"Irene has..._issues_ with trust."

"That she doesn't trust anyone or it's impossible for anyone to trust her?"

"Both." Holmes picked up a handheld mirror and admired the neat job Watson had done on his cut. "You're right of course, Watson. It would be naive for me to assume that Irene has been openly honest with me this time. In fact, I have already considered it as an option. All that remains is to discover what that motive is."

"And you think that getting emotionally attached to the woman is the right way to go about it?"

"I never said _anything_ about emotions," Holmes said sternly. "Or attachment. My aim is simply to discover-"

"Whether there is a larger game afoot," Watson finished. "You know you've used that excuse three times now in as many years, and each time in reference to Irene Adler. What you don't seem to understand or even realise is that where Irene Adler is concerned, there's _always_ a larger game afoot! She isn't honest with anybody, Holmes, so what makes you think she's being honest with you now?"

"We must do something about your suspicious nature, Watson," Holmes said, getting up from his chair and making his way towards the door. "As I've said before, it's most unbecoming."

"You're walking into a trap," Watson said, but there was a light-hearted tone to his warning.

"And I know that you will always be here to pull me back out again!" Holmes had left the door wide open.

"Shut the door!"

"_You_ shut the door!"

Watson smiled wryly to himself as he rose to close the door himself. He reasoned that if he couldn't stop Holmes from making his own mistakes, being able to say "I told you so" by the end of the case would be extremely satisfactory!

* * *

Five days had passed since the train had departed Vienna, and they were now cruising happily through the mountains of eastern Turkey. Holmes spent hours on end locked in his and Irene's cabin; deeply engaged in the complexities of life if you asked Holmes himself, and most likely inhaling large amounts of dangerous narcotic drugs if you asked Watson.

On one of the rare occasions that Watson managed to convince his friend to leave the confines of his room and come to dinner, Holmes returned to his quarters to find Irene waiting for him.

"Wine?" she asked, holding up two glasses and indicating an expensive bottle of vintage red on the coffee table. Holmes wrinkled his nose as a wave of fresh scents hit him- Irene's perfume was there of course, but mixed with the tang of swelling brown olives (there was a bowlful on the table with the wine) and an artificial scent he had trouble placing at first...industrial-strength wood polish. Irene had had the room cleaned.

"What is it you're after now?" Holmes asked, taking the glass Irene offered him with a suspicious sniff to its contents.

"What is it I'm after?"

"The room is pristine and you have ordered in olives and wine," Holmes explained, "In essence, you rarely make an effort unless you require my services for a task you feel I will decline."

"If you weren't such hard work to convince, I wouldn't need bribery," Irene said, smiling as she lifted one of the olives and popped it into her mouth. She wasn't overly keen on the things, but she knew they were Holmes' favourites and that he wouldn't touch them until he saw her eat one first.

Holmes took an olive but left the wine where it was. "I don't believe you answered my question, Miss Adler..."

"What question, Mr Holmes?"

She was playing games with him, Holmes knew. Though she appeared casual, it was the tiniest details that gave her away: the upward inclination of her head as she spoke to him; the way she kept playing with a strand of hair that hung down the side of her face; the deliberate positioning of her dress so that the neckline sat several centimetres lower than when she had dressed this morning. Unfortunately for Irene, though, Holmes was an expert on small details, and this only made it easier for him to work around them.

"What is it you want from me?"

"You already know what I want," Irene said as she sipped her wine. "Isn't that why we're here now?"

"Indeed, but I find that actions speak louder than words." Holmes was watching her carefully, and Irene was unsure of just what she saw in those eyes. He was striding up and down the room, speaking with a voice Irene recognised as the one he exhibited just after a momentous discovery or when he was leading up to a point. It was the tone he had used when explaining he had known all along the real identity of D.B Cambell. He had used the same one several times in the past; the most recallable of which had been when explaining Lord Blackwood's designs on Parliament nearly two years previously. When Holmes ended his striding, he came to stand directly in front of Irene; a risky move, he knew, considering that their history of standing close to one another usually ended in violence and pain.

"You surprise me with food and wine," Holmes began. He lifted a layer of her curly hair from behind one ear. "You have dressed differently in preparation for this evening; adorning your hair with a posy bought for sixpence from the Romanian gypsy woman in room Fourteen C, and unless I am sadly mistaken, that cushion on the chair you have so far failed to sit down upon is concealing a bottle of the finest Parisian champagne available to purchase on this train."

Holmes looked up and stared directly into Irene's eyes; the russet meeting the azure at a distance of only a few inches.

"As for your intentions, it's fairly safe to say you had an ulterior motive with this evening's preparations..."

"Which is..?" Irene could feel herself growing uncomfortable. It was true that this evening had begun as another one of her promiscuous ploys, but she was unsure of when the game had become real. And now, as Holmes stood just inches away -so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin- she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up her reserve. Because Irene _had_ envisaged an alternative ending to this evening. She had planned it down to the finest detail; even taking into account Holmes' responses to her actions. Now, she cursed herself for forgetting that Holmes was the one person who could never be counted on to be predictable. Worse, she was sure now that Holmes had guessed her intentions...and it was probably mere moments before he made his opinions clear.

"I have...so far established that you were after...something more from me..." Irene was sure she could hear Holmes struggling to get the words out, and knew that their closeness affected him in the same way it affected her. "The only question is, is it something new you're after..." He paused. "Or something you made clear you have wanted before, but have... so far...been unable to attain..?"

Irene had no means of answering. She breathed in deeply, desperately trying to prevent a dark blush from creeping to her cheeks. Breathing _in_ was a huge mistake- all she could smell was Holmes. His aftershave, stale tobacco and a hint of olive now dominated her senses and she could no longer look into his eyes.

"As I'm sure you already know," Holmes began, his voice only just above a whisper, "I am more than capable of resisting..."

"Are you really?" Her last hope was to pass this off as a joke. _This was no game anymore... _How had she let this get out of hand?

"And I assure you..." Holmes leaned in close so he could whisper in Irene's ear, utilising every last ounce of his self-control to hold his breath and deliver his last few words. "...I can hold out just as long as you can."

"Hold out for what exactly?"

"_Against_ what," Holmes corrected, taking a step back and feeling himself relax slightly. "And you know exactly what I mean, Irene." For the first time, he took up the glass of wine and sipped at it without hesitation. "So let me make it clear..." Something inside Holmes was crying out for him not to say the words that were about to escape his lips, but he crushed the uprising of emotions before they could peak. He was well-practiced in the quashing of such sentiments, and this time was no different to the others. _Was it?_

"No matter what your intentions were for this evening," Holmes continued, "Nothing will come from it. In fact, it would be better if you were to-"

Holmes could not move out of the way fast enough. His wine glass dropped to the floor, forgotten, as Irene sprung from her stupor and captured his lips in a fierce and fiery kiss. Irene could not lay a finger on the moment she had lost control totally, but now her hands were stroking his cheeks, feeling the rugged lines and prickles of stubble that formed the face of the man she was kissing.

Rather than bite down on her own lip to stop the moan that always threatened, Irene bit down on Holmes' bottom lip. Why had she begun the kiss after all he had said? Had she suspected that his words were just an act and that he would soon give in if the right tactics were applied? Was this all a childish struggle for power over the other? But as Irene felt Holmes' hands rising slowly up her back, she knew that there could have been no other way. She wanted him; she _needed_ him, more than she had needed anything or any_one_ in all her life. And unless she was very much mistaken, Holmes needed her too.

His hands were everywhere now; moving from the small of her back down to cup both of her buttocks, and then back up again to her caress her neck and cheeks. She almost cried out in delight as he moved his lips to her neck and suckled on the skin; leaving a red mark above the collarbone and sending waves of pleasure coursing through Irene's body.

She got her hands inside his waistcoat, but her concentration was shot to pieces by Holmes trailing his kisses down her chest and dangerously close to the dip of her cleavage as his hands frisked her hips and thighs in a way that truly made her want to buckle at the knees and scream.

"Ohhh...Sherlock...Good...Sherlock..."

"Mmhmm?"

"Good..."

"Night."

Irene did a double-take and confusion took over just for one second.

"What?" She felt her heart skip a beat out of disappointment as Holmes lifted his hands away and stepped back, pulling his lips away from hers.

"Good. Night."

"_What?_" Irene could feel the dread building in her chest. Was this _really_ happening?

"Goodnight." Holmes had the smallest hint of a smug smile on her face as he opened the door of the cabin and stepped outside. "Goodnight, Irene."

And then he was gone and Irene was left alone, feeling flushed and foolish beyond compare. A rush of emotions flooded her head- anger, humiliation and sorrow all at once. But as they slowly drained away and the absence of Holmes allowed her to think clearly once again, her anger was replaced by a determination more potent than anything she had ever felt. He had made a fool out of her, but she did not back down easily.

If it was a game Sherlock Holmes wanted, a game was what Sherlock Holmes would get. And Irene was resolute that whatever form the game would take, she would be a more than willing participant!


	10. Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend

**Author's Note: This chapter is on the long-side, but I'm hoping there won't be too many complaints! =P I feel I should apologise in advance as it may be a few weeks before the next chapter gets put up as I've got a massive two weeks of GCSEs coming up, and my teachers don't have much respect for FanFiction! Thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far =) Enjoy!**

* * *

It first dawned on Holmes that he had begun a dangerous and potentially humiliating contest with Irene when he shut the door of his own room, leaving the lady in question safely on the other side. His lips were still burning from the kiss they had shared -the kiss _she_ had initiated- and at the time, Holmes had been unable to resist the opportunity.

Holmes knew that it had taken every ounce of his self-control to break off the embrace once it had begun. If Irene was not intoxicating enough, there was something about the way she had thrown herself upon him that made her seem...irresistible. Holmes was not afraid to admit to himself the effect Irene had on him- he was not in denial of his feelings; just unwilling –no, _unable-_ to act upon them.

Seconds after shutting the bedroom door behind him, Holmes was seriously contemplating turning around and re-entering the room before he realised what a bad idea that would be. This was a game between the two of them, and nothing more. Beyond the chasm of his personal feelings, Holmes' mind was telling him that if he were to go back and try and reconcile, it was very unlikely his attempts would be well-received by Irene. He had made a fool out of her, and she would need time to calm down. Or -as Holmes knew was more likely- she would need time to plan her revenge.

So instead of re-entering his own room, Holmes opened the door of Watson's cabin and stepped inside. The doctor was sat in one of the room's two armchairs, scribbling into a small leather-bound journal. He looked up and smirked as Holmes entered.

"So...You and Irene found an interesting way to pass the time this evening?"

"Testing Miss Adler's limits is a fundamental part of my plan to discover her motives with this case." The walls between cabins were thin, and Holmes realised it would be pointless to deny their liaison.

Watson rolled his eyes. "And testing your own limits in the process?" He smirked again as he turned back to his journal. "She's got you by the scruff of your neck and you don't even realise it. Preparing an evening of shameless seduction... That sounds like Irene Adler!"

Holmes said nothing; merely stepping towards the window and watching the Turkish countryside whip past in the wind. It was an incredible change of scene from the stoned streets of London, but Holmes was unimpressed. His mind was preoccupied to an extent that he was unable to concentrate on anything other than Irene. He had to fight back an onslaught of emotions as he recalled the ecstatic moan that had escaped Irene's lips as he had kissed her neck...

"I suppose that you're after somewhere to sleep for the night?"

Holmes jumped as Watson's words shook him out of his daydream. He shook his head and turned to face his friend.

"Wonderful. How kind of you to offer."

"You can have the armchair," Watson said, getting up and moving a large pile of books from the second armchair onto the table. "But only if you keep quiet. We're due to cross the border out of Turkey tomorrow morning and I want to be fully-rested."

"I shall stay perfectly silent."

"No tapping or recreational noise?"

"None at all."

"You'll shut up until half past seven tomorrow morning?"

"You have my word."

"Good."

Watson ran a small sponge bath while Holmes sat totally still in the armchair. He intended to stay quiet; he was listening to Irene through the wall. He heard her bustling around in the cabin; clinking glasses together as she cleared them. He heard the olive disk scrape across the table and listened intently as the rustle of cloth suggested she was dressing for bed. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up on end as he heard her footsteps crossing the cabin with new purpose, followed by the creaking of the door as she swung it open and entered the corridor. Her knock sounded just seconds later, and Holmes was on his feet to answer it before he could think twice.

"Good evening, Miss-" Holmes was cut off by Irene's knee slamming into his groin. He doubled-up and groaned as he felt her hands wrapping themselves around strands of his hair and dragging him up to a vertical position. He was prepared for two fists to the face, but the reality was very different. Her lips caressed his for less than five seconds before she drew back and whispered into his ear.

"Nice trick there, Sherlock...you nearly had me for a second..."

"I would have said for more than a second."

"It's not going to happen again." She breathed out, deliberately blowing a soft breath of hot air into his ear and revelling in the shiver it produced. "I'm going to make you come undone in ways you've never experienced before. You're not going to win this one..."

"What gives you such confidence?"

Irene's only response was to press herself closer to Holmes and lower her hand so it stayed dangerously close to Holmes' crotch. She smiled triumphantly as the pressure she applied caused _every_ muscle in the detective's body to tense under her touch.

"You see," she said. "That was just a tiny touch... Imagine the rush you'd get from the rest..."

"Yes," Holmes said, applying a hand to her lower abdomen and gently sliding it down further and further until she too shuddered with anticipation. "Imagine..."

"I'm good, Sherlock," Irene said once she had recovered herself and banished the hot flush that threatened to cloud both her cheeks and her judgement. "I'm really damn good..."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"So it's game-on?"

"May the best player win." Holmes was both comforted and excited by her words. It was a poor excuse, but something within Holmes was telling him that this game Irene spoke of was the perfect guise under which to act upon his feelings without the worry of becoming emotionally involved. This, Holmes reasoned, was a win-win scenario. All he would have to do was beat Irene at her own game...

Irene kissed his cheek and backed out of the room. Holmes watched her go and then shut the door behind her.

"Now _that_ was something I could have done without seeing..." Momentarily, Holmes had forgotten all about Watson. The doctor shook his head despairingly. "You're an idiot, Holmes," he told him. "What on Earth possessed you to challenge Irene Adler to a game involving sexual relations? This can hardly be described as research!"

"In what way?"

"Well, you're not exactly thinking with your _head_ anymore, are you?"

"I'll wager six weeks," Holmes said, taking his seat in the armchair and beginning to stuff tobacco into his clay pipe. "Six weeks til she cracks."

"Or two weeks until _you _do." Watson rolled his eyes as he took the second armchair. "Give it up, Holmes; she's been 'round the track more times than a Derby champion!"

"Maybe," Holmes said, lighting his pipe and taking a long drag. "But I've had my fair share of experience in the field..."

"Holmes, did you know there's such a thing as 'Too Much Information'?" Watson held up his hands in surrender. "Really, what you do in the privacy of your own home is nobody's business but yours." He raised an eyebrow. "And Irene's, clearly."

Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly, blowing enormous clouds of smoke across the room. When Watson began coughing from the fumes, he reached over and snatched Holmes' pipe; dropping it into a pitcher of water that sat on the table.

"For the last time, Holmes, if you're going to smoke, would you _please_ do it in your own room?"

"You want me to go back in there? _Now?_"

"We all reap what we sow," Watson retorted. "You've dug yourself into this hole, Holmes; you can get yourself out again." He grinned. "Whether it will be with both your pride and _every_ part of your anatomy still intact, no one can say!"

"Without a doubt, Watson, you exhibit the human instinct to take pleasure from the pain of others," Holmes said. "I believe the Germans call it _Schadenfreude..._"

"You told me you didn't speak German!"

"I tell you a lot of things..."

"Well could you please _tell_ me how much longer this journey is going to take?" Watson gritted his teeth as he spoke. "We've been on this train for eight days now, and if anyone needs to get their feet back on solid ground, it's you!"

"Thank you for that prognosis, doctor," Holmes said, fishing his pipe from the water jug and shaking the droplets of water in Watson's direction. "And in answer to your question, we'll be arriving in the far east of Pakistan within six days."

"I want you back in your own room within three," Watson said firmly. "I'm a patient man, but I'm not sure if my nerves can stand the strain..."

"Watson, Watson, Watson..." Holmes was stuffing his pipe with fresh tobacco and preparing to leave the room in order to smoke. "We shared a set of rooms for several years...surely you remember?"

"You're right," Watson told him, "I do. And _that_ is exactly what concerns me!"

* * *

Sufficed to say, Holmes only made it a day and a half before he was firmly expatriated from Watson's room. Whether the final straw had been the tobacco stains in the breast of Watson's best white shirt or Holmes rugby tackling him when he had narrowly missed sitting on the Stradivarius that had been nestled in the armchair, Holmes was unsure. All he knew was that he had not seen or spoken to Irene for more than twenty four hours; and was secretly terrified of just what she could have planned in that time.

The train had left Turkey and was heading south through Iran; leaving the plains of Georgia behind and steaming towards the Afghan border. A bump on the train tracks threw Holmes off-balance, and he fell into the door; putting out both hands to steady himself against the wood. The door was unlocked. Holmes toppled forwards as the door swung open and landed with a 'thump' on the floor in the doorway of the room.

"Nice entrance..."

Holmes looked up warily. Irene was watching him from where she was stood by the window. Her hair was pinned as if she were about to go out, and Holmes noticed she had donned her best (admittedly stolen) jewels; reserved, he knew, for only the most special of occasions.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, getting gingerly to his feet and brushing dust from the front of the black waistcoat he wore.

"Oh, you're coming with me," she told him. Her smile was wide enough that their encounter before might not have taken place. "We're having afternoon tea."

Holmes looked out at the barren landscape passing by the window. "...At Iran's most famous pavement cafe..?"

"On the train," Irene said, rolling her eyes and chuckling to herself. "I was just about to get changed."

"Aren't you..." Holmes began, but broke off as Irene dropped the dress she wore from her shoulders and picked the pool of navy satin from the floor; taking care to face away from Holmes so he could see the round curvature of her buttocks as she bent. She looked up at him, eyes wide and innocent.

"Is there a problem, detective?"

"Not at all." Holmes forced a smile as he removed his own tattered jacket and chose a neatly-pressed tailcoat from the pile of clothes that still sat over the armchair where he slept. He looked up as another comment sprang to mind. "_Do_ wear the pink," he told her. "It flatters your skin tone."

"Fashion expert now, are we?" Irene asked amusedly as she obediently took the dark pink dress Holmes had described from the closet.

"Among my many talents..." Holmes slipped his arms through the jacket and adjusted his cravat in the gilt mirror above the mantelpiece. "Who is it we're meeting for tea?"

* * *

"Lord Leopold, I'd like you to meet my husband: Sherlock Holmes." Irene smiled up at Holmes, adjusting her grip on his arm as he shook hands with Lord Leopold- a tall, balding man with a contagious-looking skin disease covering his left hand. Holmes had to grit his teeth and smile as he shook the scab-covered hand that was offered him.

They were in the train's conference rooms: an area which covered the entire floor space of the final carriage and which was set apart for business, meetings and the occasional private party. Aside from Holmes and Irene, there were about ten other people in the room, and Irene appeared to know every single one of them.

They had approached Lord Leopold almost as soon as they had entered, bypassing the light refreshments and champagne that had been laid out at the back. Irene had now spotted another familiar face in the crowd and was leading Holmes towards him.

"Mrs Holmes, how lovely to see you again." The tubby gentleman saw them approaching before Irene could hail him. Holmes was not especially tall, but this man barely even came up to his shoulder. "Am I to assume this is your husband?"

"Sherlock Holmes." Holmes offered a hand, enjoying as always the fact that he was studying every detail of the man before him while his subject was none the wiser.

"We meet at last," the man enthused, taking Holmes' hand and pumping it up and down exuberantly. "Thomas Walton. It's a pleasure, Mr Holmes...your wife has told us so much about you. I must say, we are all incredibly impressed by your work. Private detectives really should be given more acclaim... "

Holmes nodded graciously and spoke a few words back, but his mouth was operating on autopilot. The ten other people in this room shared several common factors: they were all well-dressed, and all incredibly well-off. With his tousled dark hair and unshaven stubble, Holmes stood out by a million miles; as did Irene with her American accent and pink dress. It was also of Holmes' interest to notice that by ten years at least, they were the youngest members of the party. His majestic mind was ticking and whirring already as thousands of possible reasons for their presence here buzzed around like live insects within his skull. Unable to decide on one alone, Holmes excused himself from conversation with Thomas Walton and led Irene away.

"Would it be too much for me to ask what we're doing here?" Holmes whispered to Irene, pulling her to one side and helping himself to two glasses of champagne; one of which he handed to her.

"It's a conference," Irene explained in an equally low voice. "You have _no_ idea how long I've spent trying to get myself a ticket to one of these meetings, so the least you can do is play along."

"Tell me..."

"We're Sherlock and Irene Holmes. I was born in New Jersey as the heir to an enormous oil fortune. You were born and raised in London and your father was Joseph Bridgestock-Holmes: An aristocrat who held a seat on the House of Lords for more than twenty years. We met in France while browsing in a famous Paris jewellery store, which you returned to a year later to purchase my engagement ring." Irene wiggled her finger in Holmes' direction.

"I take it you've fed this story to the company already?" Holmes asked; half-appalled, half-admiring.

"It was necessary," Irene told him, smiling at a haughty-looking woman who was adorned with pearls of all shapes and sizes. "This isn't the kind of club you can just walk into."

Holmes said nothing; merely turning back to the refreshment table and taking another glass of champagne to replace his own- the contents of which seemed to have disappeared rather quickly. His eye was caught by a small pile of cards which sat on the edge of the table. He lifted one to the light and examined the heading: _NSSPS. _

"How intriguing," Holmes murmured to himself, setting the card back down again once seeing there was no further information given on the card which would indicate what the letters stood for.

"Ladies and Gentlemen." A voice sounded over the quiet chatter. "If you would all like to take your seats, the meeting will begin shortly."

Irene led Holmes over to a seating booth next to an elderly couple in matching shades of dark green attire. Holmes took his seat and looked around him; intrigued to discover what _NSSPS_ was. He reasoned that it would be a charity or organisation of some kind, but why was Irene so interested in it?

A man stood up at the front and turned to face the company. He was, Holmes thought, one of the most unattractive men he had ever laid eyes on. But what he lacked in good looks, he made up for in presence. The man radiated power and prosperity; far more so than anybody else he had seen so far. Without so much as speaking to him, Holmes could tell straight away that this man was the richest one there, and most likely the leader. The others seemed to look up at him; as if he were a prophet or deity of some sort. Holmes even half expected them to get down on their knees and bow when he began to speak.

"It gives me great pleasure," the man began, "To welcome you all to the twenty-seventh annual meeting of the National Society for the Study of Precious Stones."

A scattering of applause broke out, and Holmes smiled to himself. The National Society for the Study of Precious Stones. Suddenly it wasn't so much of a mystery why Irene was interested in this particular cause!

"I see we have some new faces joining us today," the man continued, smiling in Irene and Holmes' direction. "Let us give a warm welcome to Sherlock and Irene Holmes."

Holmes and Irene smiled and nodded as the company clapped politely in their honour.

"Now that the introductions are complete, I would like to draw your attention towards our first item of the day; sent to us by Lady Melissa Hartley from her estate in Hertfordshire." The speaker indicated another man who stood just to his left. The second man held a beautiful emerald ring on a satin cushion. It was set with two diamonds on either side and sent a glittering spectrum across the room as the sunlight caught it.

There were several admiring gasps and exclamations from the crowd as the ring was passed around for all to see. Holmes, however, was wholly unimpressed. He sneaked a glance at Irene, and saw that she too had every ounce of her attention focussed on the ring. Her eyes shone with a familiar gleam as the precious stones passed under her scrutiny.

"Tell me," Holmes whispered, "Does the society know they have a serial kleptomaniac in their midst, or did you leave that part out of the conversation?"

"I prefer the term 'Mastermind'," Irene said slyly.

"I daresay you have several fine pieces secreted away which the society would give an arm and a leg to inspect..."

"Maybe I do," Irene said, "But they don't know that, and you're not going to tell them."

"I had no intention of telling them," Holmes said, pretending to be interested as the ring passed through his own hands. "But you should know, precious stones are not my area of expertise."

"Make something up," Irene said frantically. "Act like every diamond you see is a miracle of creation and you should be fine." She leaned in close and whispered directly into Holmes' ear. "Besides...You owe me one after last night!"

Holmes cleared his throat just as silence fell over the company. He wished he had made no noise at all when he realised that every member of the party was watching him; as if waiting for him to speak. The speaker at the front smiled encouragingly at Holmes.

"We welcome contributions from even our newest of members," he said pleasantly. "Please feel free to speak if there was something you wanted to say..?"

Holmes could feel Irene's eyes on him; willing him silently to keep quiet and not speak up. He considered the situation. He knew next to nothing about precious stones; the answer _should _have been simple.

"As a matter of fact," Holmes heard himself saying, "I _do_ have something I would like to address." He got to his feet and stepped to the front; catching Irene's eye and flashing his smug barely-there smile. She rolled her eyes in response; interested despite herself in what he had to say.

"It should be obvious to everyone here," Holmes began, "That in this room there is a small fortune in diamonds, gems and precious stones." He stared around at the party, taking in the strings of pearls and shining stones that adorned so many of them. "Perhaps it would interest you to know that there is one piece in particular which has caught my eye today- one which lets the side down significantly." His gaze fell upon a white-haired woman in the front row of the meeting. "Madam, are you aware that the diamond pendant around your neck is a forgery?"

You would have been able to hear a pin drop in the silence which followed Holmes' statement. Off to one side, Irene wished she could bury her head in her hands. She knew exactly what was coming.

"I _beg _your pardon?" the woman spluttered finally. "My pendant most certainly is _not_-"

"A forgery," Holmes interrupted. "A very clever one, but a counterfeit nonetheless." He held out a hand. "If I may..?" he prompted.

Suspiciously and with mush hesitation, the woman handed over her pendant. Holmes received it and turned it over and over in his hands, gleefully studying the perfect stone nestled in a casket of gold. He looked up at Irene. "May I borrow your ring, darling?"

Irene handed it to him, hoping her warning stare would hit home. Holmes held up the Irene's diamond ring in his right hand, and the pendant in the other. "As you can see," he said, "A diamond acts as a prism; splitting light into a spectrum of seven different colours." He held the ring into the rays of sunlight spilling through the window of the train. At once, a stunning beam of light spread across the flooring; seven rays of light in every colour of the rainbow. He lowered the ring and held the pendant into the light instead. The spectrum appeared again, but in a much duller shade than before. The difference was obvious to everyone present.

"If your pendant was a real diamond, it would surely split light to the same degree as my wife's ring," Holmes told the woman. "I first noticed the difference as you entered the room before the meeting and stepped into the light. As it is, your pendant is a finely-cut piece of glass made to _look_ like a diamond." With nimble fingers, Holmes unlaced the gold chain from the pendant so that he held one component in each hand.

"The final proof can be drawn from the solidity," Holmes said, casually tossing and catching the pendant in his hand. "Diamond is one of the hardest and most durable substances known to man, but glass is more easily shattered. If one were to apply a suitable amount of force..."

Before anyone could react, Holmes flicked his wrist and flung the pendant at the wall beneath the train window. There was a universal intake of breath as everyone waited to see what would happen when the 'diamond' hit the wall. But Holmes' aim had been slightly off and instead of hitting the wall and stopping, the pendant hit the window itself; carrying with it the full force of Holmes' over-arm throw. With a tremendous 'CRACK', the window smashed; leaving a rounded hole in the shape of the pendant which had just passed through it.

Holmes looked 'round slowly at the window before closing his eyes in dismay. "Alright," he said slowly and carefully to the crowd that was now glaring at him ferociously. "Perhaps if I had taken the glass out of the gold casing before testing, the pendant would have bounced back from the window." He looked out of the window, certain that he saw the glint of gold and glass shine back as the light caught it. "If it's any consolation," he told the woman, "You have lost nothing of value. Besides the gold chain which you still have," he held it up, "The pendant was practically worthless."

The woman got slowly to her feet; with difficulty, for she was quite elderly.

"That pendant was a family heirloom," she said furiously. "A forgery it may have been, but its sentimental value was priceless!" Before Holmes could say anything by way of apology or reply, the woman turned to the chairman. "I am _most_ unimpressed, Mr Matthews," she said severely. "It is with great regret that I do so, but I am afraid I must withdraw my support of this organisation." She glared at Holmes. "A noble organisation it once was, but clearly you no longer consider carefully who should be allowed to attend."

The chairman had turned very white, and he raced after the woman as she made her exit from the room.

"No, please wait, Lady De Faure! Please, let's talk this over, don't let's be rash now!"

Another silence had fallen over the room. Every pair of eyes was burning holes through Holmes' forehead. Irene stepped up to Holmes' side and spoke in a low voice.

"Sherlock, _dear_... That was Lady Frances De Faure of Bordeaux- one of the richest women in Europe. She is the financier of the NSSPS. She sponsored it from the start, and it's her that keeps it running." She sighed deeply. "I guess not anymore..."

Holmes stared straight ahead, unblinking. On the one hand, he had exhibited his unmatched skills of deduction in a way that would normally have earned him praise and respect. On the other, he had inadvertently destroyed a popular organisation made up of some of the richest men and women in the world. Holmes could see only one way out, and he laid a hand on Irene's shoulder as a husband would to his wife.

"I'll meet you back at the room, shall I?" He nodded respectfully to the remaining members of the party. "_Bonsoir_."

Irene watched him go, taking in the tense and furious silence that remained. She broke it in the only way she knew how; leaning back in her chair and breaking into a wide smile as she helped herself to another glass of champagne.

"So, ladies," she said, turning to the woman in the green dress who sat beside her. "What did you all think of my husband?"


	11. Weak Spot

**Author's Note: Since chapter 10 was published a few weeks back, I've had a load of personal messages from you guys requesting a sex scene at some point. Not that it's coming any time soon, but I like to make you guys happy, and this is just a warning that you may see and increase in rating at some stage from a T to an M. If you're gunna write smut, you may as well do it properly! =P Enjoy chapter 11! **

* * *

Holmes did not return to his room straight away, but instead went to the smoking room so he could light his pipe without having Watson breathing down his neck. A normal person would be feeling guilty and embarrassed having deeply offended so many people, but it was often said that Holmes had lost touch with his conscience. In fact, Watson's opinion was that Holmes did not even possess one. At the present moment in time, Holmes was not even concerned for Irene and how she might be dealing with the fallout of his actions. He knew Irene well, and was confident she had handled worse than a few angered aristocrats.

And so he stood alone and smoked his pipe, mulling over his own thoughts and watching as the barren land outside whizzed past; blurry and out of focus. Sometimes, Holmes' mind was a scary place. It even scared him sometimes; mainly because it was too terrifying for anyone else to try to get inside and provide any relief. That was partly the reason why Holmes relished his encounters with Irene; encouraged them, even. Irene was the one woman to ever make an impression on Holmes, and the only one who had begun to break down the barriers he had built up around himself. When Irene got inside -if only for a second- it was the sweetest release Holmes could imagine. And that was why Holmes missed her so. Every time they touched, the release was there, and it thrilled him. But as time went on, the small touches were no longer enough. He wanted to feel more; to make the relief last. He reasoned that it was like a fine wine or a particular drug- once one has built up a tolerance to it, a larger intake would be needed next time for it to feel the same. For this reason, Irene was like a drug to him- the dose was twice as deadly, but the relief was three times as good.

After an hour (and nearly a full box of tobacco) had passed, Holmes roused himself from his thoughts and made his way slowly back to the rooms. He called in on Watson first of all; partly dreading the disapproving response he expected to receive had tales of the NSSPS meeting got back to him.

Watson looked briefly over the top of his newspaper, but otherwise made no form of greeting. Holmes flopped down into the opposite armchair and waited for the onslaught to begin. Sure enough, it began twenty seconds later. With a snort that he could no longer repress, Watson let his newspaper slide to the floor and broke down into convulsions of laughter. It was far from the reaction Holmes had expected, but still not one he was utterly thrilled with.

"I take it," Holmes said, loud enough that he could be heard over Watson's laughter, "That Irene has beaten me here and relayed her tales?"

"No, she's not in yet," Watson said, still laughing. "But news travels fast, and let's face it, you upset quite a few people today!"

"Irene isn't back yet?" Holmes asked, pacing to the window rather than take the armchair offered by Watson.

"You've always had a great sense of priority," Watson said scathingly. "It's one of the _many_ things I admire in you. And no, Irene is not back." The doctor smiled mockingly as he took up his paper again, crossing one leg over the other as was his way. "I'd say that at best, she's trying to clear up the mess you left behind; or at worse, she's jumped ship with a trunk-load of diamonds!"

"Or she's outside the door, listening to our conversation..." Holmes swung the door back on its hinges to reveal Irene; hands on hips and an utterly unamused expression on her face.

"How did you know I was there?" she asked, taking the empty armchair after realising Holmes was not about to sit down himself.

"Most likely he heard your breathing as you stood outside the door," Watson said without looking up from his paper. "That or he 'felt' your presence as you came up the corridor."

"Do you see anyone wounded, doctor?" Holmes asked.

"...No."

"Then your input is far from necessary, wouldn't you agree?" Holmes smiled unkindly and looked Irene up and down. "As a matter of fact, it was your shoes that gave you away this time."

"My shoes?" Irene asked, more for amusement than out of curiosity or surprise.

"Italian leather," Holmes said, stooping at Irene's feet and lifting her leg so her cocked knee straightened and allowed him access to the soles of her shoes. "Handmade by the famous Sicilian cobbler- Marcos Antonio Pierrechi; so unique because of the particular density of wood used to form the soles." He tapped the shoe's underside with a bunched fist before getting to his feet; wincing slightly with the pain which came in his knee whenever he bent it. "I think you'll agree the pitch of the footstep is quite distinctive; especially on polished wooden flooring."

"How was the meeting?" Watson asked Irene. He was quite used to his friend's deductions, and they no longer amazed him as they once did.

Irene shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it." She managed a wry smile. "I think a pot of tea would be nice...I'll go to the kitchen."

When the tea arrived, Irene poured three cups and sweetened two with sugar. Watson took the one without, wondering how she had guessed he would take none. He blew over its surface to cool it, and held it in his lap while they talked.

"Look at us three," Irene said, smiling. "Sitting here together...it's like old times."

"Yes," Holmes said. "Just like old times."

Watson noticed Holmes was looking hard at Irene as he spoke. The woman looked back defiantly, her fine blue eyes resolute and unblinking. Watson wondered to himself what Holmes knew that he wasn't letting on. This was far from the first look of its kind he had given to Irene since their departure from London...

"When do we cross over into Afghanistan?" Watson asked to break the awkward silence that had descended rather than out of actual curiosity.

"The middle of tomorrow night," Irene replied. She seemed to be making some epic of stirring her tea. She had been at it for more than a minute now.

"Can't say I look forward to it," Watson said with a slight grimace. "Afghanistan doesn't hold many happy memories for me..." He was referring, of course, to the war in which he had served more than eight years previously.

Irene's attention had strayed away from her tea, and her gaze was now locked on a silver-framed photograph which stood on the side table. It showed Watson with his arm around a pretty young woman. Although they had never met, Irene knew immediately that it was his wife, Mary. Watson's free arm was cradling a tiny baby in a white lace baptism gown; tufts of blonde hair framing a beautiful face with bright eyes that were the exact same shape as Watson's. The baby's double was nestled in the arms of her mother, wearing an identical gown. Both children held rattles in their tiny fists.

"That's me, Mary and the girls," Watson said, noticing Irene's interest.

"They're beautiful," Irene said admiringly. "Which is which?"

"The one I'm holding is Tallulah," Watson said with a proud smile. "We call her Tilly. And her sister -in Mary's arms- is Rose."

"You're holding Rose."

Both Watson and Irene looked up at Holmes in confusion.

"What?"

"The baby you're holding in the photograph is Rose, not Tilly," Holmes said, not even looking in their direction. Watson took the photograph from Irene and stared at it intently.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Holmes, they're identical twins; how can you possibly tell?" Watson returned the frame to Irene, his mind made up. "Anyway, I distinctly remember Mary handing me _Tilly_ to hold for the photograph."

"Your mistake is to rely on your..._sometimes questionable_ memory rather than address the facts that are shown before you," Holmes said. He was still looking out of the window at the passing landscape, and Watson found himself growing irritated at his friend's apathetic attitude. "Your daughters will celebrate their first birthday in two weeks and by the date on the back of the photograph, I would estimate their age at the time to be six months."

Irene was studying the photo carefully.

"There's no date on it," she said.

"Lift it to the light," Holmes said.

She did as she was told, and saw immediately the date scribbled on the back. The light shining through illuminated the writing in reverse, and it took her a few seconds to mirror the inscription in her mind.

"March 30th," Irene said.

"Precisely."

"What does the date matter?" Watson asked incredulously. "They've looked the same as each other from the day they were born, for heaven's sakes!"

Holmes was quick off the mark. "If they look _exactly_ the same, how do _you_ claim to know which is which?"

Watson's only response was to hold out his hands and huff.

"Contrary to your belief, Watson, your two daughters are far from identical; in fact there are several key differences between the two young ladies." For the first time, Holmes turned 'round from the window and faced them. "You will notice that the baby in your arms holds her rattle in her left hand, while her sister holds hers in her right."

"So..?"

"A child will begin to express from an early age the hand they are most coordinated with using," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "Having spent the past eleven months observing the girls in various stages of their development, it's become clear to me that one prefers the use of her right hand, and the other, her left." Holmes smiled maddeningly in Watson's direction; as he always did when he knew his deductions to be irrefutable. "One of your daughters, Watson, is left handed; and it is Rose who possesses that characteristic."

"Anything else?" Watson asked through gritted teeth; interested despite himself to know where his friend would take his argument next.

"Since you ask..." Holmes leaned over the back of Irene's armchair, and she inclined the photograph so he could see it properly. Within seconds, he had found what he was looking for. "Look closely at the photograph," Holmes said, taking it from Irene and holding it so close to Watson's face that the latter's nose was almost touching the glass, "And cast your mind back to that fine Spring afternoon when you brought the girls to Baker Street without your wife for supervision." Holmes tapped the photograph where a tiny dark smudge was visible above the eye of the baby Mary held. "If I recall, Tilly attempted to pull herself up to a standing position, using the drawing room hatstand as leverage..."

Watson flushed slightly at the memory. He had heard his daughter's screams from the hallway and had rushed to the drawing room with Holmes close behind him. The hatstand had toppled over, striking the baby across the forehead as it fell. No lasting damage had been done, but within minutes, an ugly bruise had erupted above Tilly's eye. Mary had been nervous enough about leaving the girls for the day as it was, and Watson had felt horribly guilty for weeks afterwards.

"As you can see, the bruise she sustained on that day is still fresh on her skin," Holmes said smugly. "Which would lead me, and I'm sure you yourself, to the conclusion that the baby you hold is Rose and not Tilly."

Watson looked even more closely at the photo. The bruise was there, but he would never have noticed it.

"How did you see that?" he asked.

"Because I knew it was there," Holmes said, setting the frame back on the table.

"I think you're a lucky guy," Irene said kindly, smiling at Watson. "Two lovely daughters, and another on the way..."

"It might be a boy," Watson said, returning her smile.

"Maybe..." Irene was looking again at the photo. "Where did you get the photograph taken?"

"Mary's brother earns his living from professional photography," Watson said. "He has an exhibition just off Leicester Square."

"And the frame?"

"An heirloom." Watson was blowing on his tea again. "It's been in Mary's family for centuries." He caught the warning glare in Holmes' eye. "Not that it's of any value," he said quickly.

After one final blow, Watson decided his tea was of a suitable temperature to drink. He raised the cup to his lips and took a mouthful; noticing but not really thinking about the fact that neither Holmes nor Irene had touched their own cups. There was good reason for this, as Watson discovered seconds later. The tea tasted foul and he spat it out, retching and spluttering. He hadn't swallowed a drop, but already his head was spinning and dark circles were appearing before his eyes.

"What was in that?" he demanded, trying simultaneously to steady himself and hold back the urge to vomit.

Holmes shook his head with the quiet air of a professional, looking towards the teapot Irene had brought.

"Wait for her to drink first, Watson," he advised. "You _always_ wait for her to drink first!"

* * *

Although the spiked tea had been little more than a harmless prank, Watson was noticeably short with Irene in the days that followed. That said, he was short with everyone; memories of the Afghan war plaguing his usually rational mind. He would snap at Holmes when he came calling, and the detective learnt quickly to leave him to his own devices.

"I feel kind of bad," Irene said to Holmes one night as she lay in her bed and he in his armchair. "All this over a pot of tea..."

"There's more than poisoned tea on his mind," Holmes told her; eyes closed and knees up under his chin in the chair. "Separation from his wife and family...Weariness of train travel... We passed by Kabul yesterday, and I know for a fact that he lost a good friend in the war just miles from the station where we stopped to refuel."

Irene smiled. "What's it like to trade places?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Being in Watson's shoes for once," she said. "Isn't it normally _you_ who locks yourself away from the world for weeks and refuses to talk to anyone? I'm just saying it must be a change for you to be the stable one."

"Naturally." Holmes still had his eyes closed, but he smiled into the dark of the room. "I must say, after a few days in his position, I can only pity him. It certainly is a refreshing change."

Holmes and Irene remembered how thin the walls were when they heard Watson shout back to Holmes' statement.

"I wish I could say the same thing!"

* * *

Whether it was overhearing Irene comparing him to Holmes or the fact that they had left the Afghan warzone behind them, Watson was in much better spirits when he awoke the next morning; and by the time they reached the Pakistani border, he was practically back to normal. As he remarked to Irene- "I must have been almost unbearable if you were describing Sherlock Holmes as the more stable of us two!"

With the train's final station just twelve hours away, there began a frenzy of packing suitcases and checking of legal documents. In a moment of extreme generosity (and the knowledge that it would never get done otherwise), Irene packed Holmes' case for him. Holmes, of course, unpacked it and repacked it himself just to be difficult, but Irene pretended she hadn't noticed. They were learning to live with one another, and their cohabitation was of definite amusement to Watson.

"Look at you both," he said to Holmes as they left the tiny Pakistani train station together; Irene hanging back to register their baggage. "That wedding ring's cut off the oxygen flow to your brain...you two are acting like you're _actually_ married!"

"To marry is to sell one's soul to Satan," Holmes said, deadly serious. "The last two weeks have seen me descend through the very deepest levels of hell...therefore, am I not married?" But there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, and Watson laughed.

"There was me thinking marriage was a commitment to God and to each other!"

"If you are inclined to believe that way..." Holmes smiled as Irene came up beside him. He had not seen her since earlier that morning, and she had since changed into a trouser-suit she reserved for such occasions where action was expected. He had not seen her dress in such a way since their last meeting on Tower Bridge over two years ago, and thought immediately that it suited her in a way not all women could hope to carry off. Indeed, she looked even more beautiful than ever, and Holmes even surprised himself to notice just how easily his smile came now whenever he saw her.

"We're getting transport," Irene told the two men. "It's just a couple of minutes' walk." She slipped her hand through the crook of Holmes' arm, and Watson thought suddenly how well they suited one another. She was a beautiful woman, and looked all the more radiant when matched by Holmes' own (though not so obvious) good looks. If he had not known any better, Watson would easily have mistaken them for husband and wife...

The station was situated right on the edge of the Pakistani-Indian border and was surrounded on three sides by dense jungle. After the few minutes' walk Irene had described, they reached a clearing. In the clearing, there was a shack, and next to the shack was a barefoot Indian man in a white robe. He waved them over, creating a path through the trees for them to follow.

As they followed after the man, Watson became aware of a loud trumpeting sound coming from the jungle ahead. One glance at Holmes told him that the detective was thinking the same thing. Irene stayed quiet, and it wasn't until their guide pushed apart a final layer of vines and giant leaves that they realised this had been her plan all along.

In the clearing ahead of them stood four enormous Indian elephants; bathing themselves in a pool of water. They sucked water up in their trunks and squirted it back all over each other; ears flapping merrily and tails constantly waving to keep the mosquitoes away.

"Transport, boys?" Irene smiled wickedly as she watched the white robed man approach the elephants and prepare them for departure.

"Elephants are beautiful creatures," Watson said admiringly, recovering the power of speech first. "Not easy to ride, mind you..."

"You've ridden before, doctor?" Irene asked curiously.

"Once. During the war." Watson's eyes glazed over slightly as he cast his mind back. "We were transporting medical supplies to Bombay and elephants were our best bet; they can carry more than horses, you see..."

"Well they're going to carry us and all our luggage from here to the Maharaja's palace," Irene said, glancing at her watch. "The guy will be along soon with the bags, so all we need to do is saddle up!"

"Right." As per usual, Watson took it all in his stride and walked alongside Irene as she crossed the clearing towards the elephants. They had gone nearly five metres when Watson realised Holmes was not with them. He looked back over his shoulder, and saw that the detective was standing stock-still; watching the elephants with a look of suspicion, concern and blind panic.

"Holmes," Watson called back, "The elephants aren't going to come to you!"

Still, Holmes did not move. When the realisation finally hit Watson, he couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Holmes, don't tell me you're scared of elephants..."

"Surely it's wise," Holmes said, moving at long last and coming level with Watson and Irene, "To be wary of a creature that could kill you in so many different ways..."

"Enlighten me."

"Well...You could be trampled to death," Holmes said triumphantly. "Torn to pieces by its tusks; bones broken by the force of its jaw; have your skin and flesh lacerated by..."

"...You could be decapitated," Watson interrupted with the utmost level of sarcasm. "Suffocated by one of its ears flapping over your nose and mouth... Oh, and watch your revolver, Holmes- you wouldn't want the elephant taking it and putting a bullet through your spine."

"I'm glad you find this so amusing." Holmes' face was slowly draining of colour as they got closer to the elephants, and Irene noticed his grip on her arm had tightened considerably. "Perhaps this would be a good time to mention tiny, enclosed spaces..."

"Alright, alright," Watson said grudgingly, trying not to think about the time when -aged six- he had been trapped in his mother's linen cupboard for eight hours; and event which had resulted in almost permanent claustrophobia.

"Everybody has a weak spot," Holmes proclaimed. He saw that Irene was laughing. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Irene straightened her face and dropped her gaze from Holmes'. She took her arm from his and walked ahead, topknot of hair flouncing angrily as she walked. Watson could have sworn he saw a pang of sadness or hurt in Irene's eyes, but it was gone almost before it could register. He dismissed it, thinking she must be worried about returning to India; but in his heart, he knew it was more than that. Irene had something (or someone) on her mind; and it didn't take a genius to work out who that person was...


	12. There's Always Something

In the 31 years he had been alive, Watson had seen a great many amusing and entertaining things. But not one of them came even close to watching Sherlock Holmes attempt to ride an elephant.

There was no saddle on the elephant's back, and no means of which to steer or control it. Seemingly sensing that Holmes was nervous, the man in the white robes assigned him the smallest elephant of the four. Irene had perfect control of her own elephant which lowered itself obediently so she could clamber aboard its leathery back.

"Sherlock, darling..?" Though he suspected she needed no help at all, Holmes hoisted Irene up so she was sat astride her elephant. She noticed his hands were shaking and, despite her previous annoyance with Holmes, suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Was it cruel of her to force him to ride an elephant when he was quite clearly terrified of them?

Barely straining under Irene's minimal weight, Holmes wondered briefly if his hands were shaking enough for his fear to be convincing, but not so much that it gave the game away. It was true that Holmes was less than keen on the idea of being so close to an elephant, but it was less than true that he was genuinely paralysed by fear. But he reasoned that the guiltier he made Irene feel, the larger his advantage would be when the next round of their 'game' began.

Holmes was already sweating slightly from the dense Indian heat, but he felt that further steps would need to be taken if he was to remain convincing. So, he turned to Watson and spoke in a low whisper.

"Do you have your doctor's portmanteau to hand?"

Watson was rolling up his shirt sleeves and preparing to mount his elephant.

"Of course. Why?"

"Petroleum jelly. Do you have some?"

"Holmes, why would you need petroleum jelly at a time like this?"

"Now please."

Sighing deeply, Watson found his portmanteau already strapped to the back of one of the elephants that was to carry their luggage to Kashmir. He produced a tub and handed it to Holmes.

"There you go, petroleum jelly. Now are you going to tell me why you need it?"

But Holmes did not answer. He was too busy smearing the translucent jelly across his forehead and down his neck. When finished, it gave him the impression of one who was suffering an acute attack of influenza; or at least that he was harbouring a dangerously high fever. Watson rolled his eyes and shook his head as Holmes handed the now almost empty pot back to him. This was not the first time he had seen Holmes use petroleum jelly as a means of staging a fever. Indeed, the first time he had tried it, Watson himself had not been in on the joke.

As for Irene, the shock was clearly etched across her countenance as she caught a glimpse of Holmes and saw the sorry state he was in. The detective's face was contorted with fear and coated in sweat which stood out on his forehead. He was visibly shaking and his chest was heaving uncontrollably. Watson watched him with a peculiar mixture of admiration and contempt. Even the world's greatest actors would have their work cut out rivalling Sherlock Holmes...

With much hesitation and the occasional involuntary shudder, Holmes made his way slowly towards his elephant and even gave a convincing bolt backwards when the elephant bent its front legs to receive him.

Unable to put up with his friend's pretences any longer, Watson grabbed a hold of Holmes' shirt collar and shoved him none-too-gently up onto the elephant's back. Holmes was forced to scramble inelegantly and hold his weight centrally in order to avoid falling straight off the other side.

Despite his previous experience, Watson was unprepared for the moment when his own elephant rose off the floor to a standing position. He found himself holding tightly onto the elephant's great ears and thinking to himself how very high he was above the ground.

The man in the white robe was to act as their guide through the jungle, and he showed them how to steer the elephants in the way you wanted them to walk. One simply had to pull on the ear and the elephant would turn in the opposite direction. For example, a tug to the right would turn you to the left, and visa-versa. It was, Watson insisted, just like riding a horse without reins. Holmes disagreed. He had never been on a horse whose head was three metres above the ground!

"We're to follow," Irene told Holmes and Watson. "Lose all the outer layers of clothing...it's only going to get hotter as the day goes on."

Seeing Irene gently kick her elephant to start it moving, Watson did the same. Holmes groaned out loud as his elephant started forwards; pouring his heart and soul into sounding as wretched as possible for Irene's benefit. Watson rolled his eyes, but made no comment. They started off out of the clearing and under the shade of thick trees and vines.

Holmes was getting into a routine of groaning miserably every time his elephant took a step forwards. He knew his tactics had paid off when Irene slowed her elephant and -with a concerned look on her beautiful face- came up level with him. Considering that procuring an emotional reaction from Irene Adler was like getting blood from a stone, Holmes was impressed with the speed of which he had cracked her.

Irene leaned over as far as she dared and took Holmes' hand. He clasped it tightly, keeping up the appearance of a terrified man whose only comfort was the support of his 'wife'. She kept her voice low as she leaned in and spoke into his ear.

"For goodness sake, wipe the Vaseline off your face...You're going to have to do better than that!"

* * *

They set off as a chain of four through the Indian jungle. The first elephant -laden with their luggage- was led at the front by the guide. Behind him was Irene; Holmes followed third and Watson brought up the rear.

There was about ten miles of jungle to cover, which worked out as about nine hours travelling time if they stuck close to the river where the vegetation was thinner. The river water was stagnant and in no state to be drunk (although Watson had to prevent Holmes from trying to test the river's iron content with his tastebuds). Instead, they drank rainwater that had gathered on giant palm leaves and lunched on fruit picked by their guide from the trees.

Although his piteous groaning had stopped when Irene had spoken, Holmes was finding it no easy task to ride an elephant gracefully. Though he was balanced and spritely on solid ground, he rode with a hunched back; fingers wrapped tightly around the elephant ears and his whole body lurching dreadfully whenever the elephant moved. What made matters worse for him was that the elephant didn't trust Holmes any more than Holmes trusted the elephant. If he hadn't known any better, Watson would have sworn blind that the elephant was trying to throw Holmes off its back. It had taken to stopping still in the middle of the path while Holmes nudged it furiously, and then finally jolting forwards again while Holmes clung on for dear life.

The heat was hard on all three, so little was said as their trek continued through the day and into late afternoon. Holmes was sulking; frustrated that Irene had seen through his ruse. But he was sweating genuinely by twelve o'clock, as was Watson. Even Irene's white shirt was damp with sweat by the time they reached the outer layers of jungle and finally emerged into open space.

In total contrast to the vibrant colours of the jungle, the landscape beyond it was rocky and barren. The river ran alongside a scattering of brown shrivelled trees and then curved around a great mountain which quite dominated the horizon. Raising a hand, Irene pointed the way.

"The village is behind the mountain," she said. "About two miles due-west of here. The only way is to walk up the mountain and then down again...there's no way we could get all our bags across the river."

Neither Holmes nor Watson responded- Holmes because he was still sore with Irene; and Watson out of pure exhaustion. Irene started forwards on her elephant and bade Holmes follow. The latter kicked his elephant to get it moving, and the elephant responded by stopping still and refusing to move. Watson felt a smile creeping up the corners of his mouth as Holmes tugged frantically on the elephant's ears and cursed fluently under his breath as the creature stubbornly refused to move an inch. Finally, the elephant snapped out of its trance. In one swift movement, it lowered its enormous backside to the ground while keeping its front legs erect. Holmes was taken totally by surprise and he slid down the steep gradient of the elephant's back; landing in the dirt with his own legs up in the air.

By this time, Watson was near to helpless with laughter. He steered his own elephant in front of Holmes', stopping to give the detective a merry wave.

"You alright down there?"

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"_Oh_ yes." Watson grinned as he overtook Holmes. He watched over his shoulder as the detective picked himself up off the ground and clambered astride his elephant with a new determination to emerge victor.

Though he never complained openly, the Afghan war had affected Watson in ways the others could not begin to imagine. Aside from the constant pain in his knee and shoulder, his strength had never quite recovered after a nasty bout of intestinal flu whilst on the front line. As a result, he suffered greatly with fatigue; especially in the heat. As they made their way across the barren landscape, Watson could barely keep himself upright on the elephant's back. It was not only physical ailments, but psychological ones too. Watson had seen terrible things in war, and being back in India was rousing some familiar, unwelcome emotions within him. He thought of Mary, Tilly, Rose and the baby with unbearable nostalgia, and it irritated him that Holmes and Irene could drop their responsibilities so easily. So many emotions and not one of them made sense to Watson at that moment. He needed rest and he needed sleep so as to get his mind in check, but it appeared there was little chance of sleep until they reached their destination.

The sun was dipping below the horizon by now, but Watson was too exhausted even to appreciate the beauty of nature. He was honestly considering asking Irene if they could stop a while and rest, when they came around the point of the mountain and saw the land that lay beyond.

A little shanty town lay in the shadow of the great mountain with the river running on the other side of a dense patch of ferns. The town was in darkness, but above the skyline sat a palace illuminated by artificial light. The palace roof was shaped like a pointed dome and decorated beautifully with tiles and mosaic. It was too dark now to see properly, but Watson could make out the shadows of people moving down in the town below.

"We're here," Irene said. She was stating the obvious, but it somehow seemed necessary. Watson broke into a relieved smile; his fatigue not lifted, but sweetened by a sense of victory.

"So that's the Maharaja's palace..." Watson stirred his elephant and they began to trek down the other side of the mountain. For the first time in several hours, Holmes spoke up.

"Am I to assume the Maharaja knows we're coming?"

"He knows _I'm_ coming," Irene answered, wiping a thin layer of sweat from her forehead and gently coercing her elephant into stepping over a rugged boulder on the pathway. "I wrote to let him know before we left London, but I didn't mention you two..."

"Just a relapse of memory, I'm sure...?"

"Sure." Irene smiled over her shoulder at Holmes. "How's that elephant working out for you?"

"Nine hours and you've only just thought to ask?" Watson snorted amusedly. "Look at him. You wouldn't see him looking more uncomfortable if there was someone up on that elephant with him." Watson grinned. "Unless of course it was you, Miss Adler..."

Irene laughed, but uneasily so. They continued in silence for over half an hour; by which time they had reached the bottom of the mountain and the outskirts of the village. Their silent guide brought the group to a stop and Irene bade them dismount.

"The elephants aren't allowed through the village," Irene explained, "So we have to go by horse and cart."

Holmes nearly tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to get away from the great grey beast that would from this moment forwards be a key feature of his nightmares alongside Professor James Moriarty, Inspector Lestrade and -on some occasions- Irene Adler.

A small Indian man with a long plait of black hair was waiting for them with a rickety cart pulled by a grubby brown horse. Like the gentleman he was (or rather the gentleman he was pretending to be), Holmes helped Irene up into the cart and then stepped up beside her. Watson examined the lack of space remaining in the cart and then looked at the pile of their luggage that had been laid out on the road by the now retreating elephant man.

"How are we going to get the trunks up to the palace?" Watson asked. The man with the plait disappeared behind one of the shanty houses and emerged a few minutes later with another cart. It was clearly light as he pulled it behind him with minimum effort. With Watson's help, he loaded the trunks onto the cart and then took his place at the head of the horse on Holmes and Irene's cart.

Watson cleared his throat. "Aren't we forgetting something?" Holmes looked at him.

"Forgetting what?"

"Well where's the horse?" Watson realised he should have guessed the answer when he looked up and saw Holmes and Irene pointedly watching him with identical smiles on their faces.

* * *

"Couldn't we just have made two trips?" Watson yelled for the fifth time as he strained under the weight of the cart he was pulling.

"The Maharaja is expecting us, Watson," Holmes replied with a smug smile. "There's hardly time to make two trips."

"Well couldn't you come down off that cart and lend a hand?"

"Impossible." Holmes smiled down at Watson from his comfortable seat in the cart. "There could be any amount of vagabonds in this area, and it's my duty to ensure that my wife comes to no harm." With this, he rested a convincing arm around Irene's shoulders.

"Don't you try that one." Watson dumped the handles of the cart and stood glaring at Holmes, hands on hips.

"A man's place is with his wife."

"Then why," Watson asked through gritted teeth, "Am I carrying your luggage up to the door of a Maharaja's palace in India instead of being by the side of my pregnant wife while we wrap birthday presents for our two daughters?"

Holmes turned his body clockwise so he was facing Watson head-on.

"Because you, Watson, are a better man than I."

"You've got that right!" Sighing deeply, Watson picked up the handles of the cart once again and followed in the path of Holmes and Irene's cart as they began to ascend the hill that would take them through the peasant village and inside the walls of the Maharaja's palace.

* * *

"You know that's the third woman that's spat at me in the last ten minutes," Watson shouted to Holmes as they trekked through the village towards the palace. A small rock whizzed past, narrowly missing Watson's right ear. "And the fifth projectile that's been hurled at me."

"I know exactly what you mean," Holmes replied. He casually held up a handful of small rocks and pieces of litter he had accumulated in his lap. "I have quite a collection here myself. Perhaps it's some kind of welcoming ritual... a tradition of the province perchance?"

"No, Holmes," Watson said. "I'll tell you exactly what it is..." He eyed a group of Indian teenage boys who were staring suspiciously at him with irrefutable hatred. "English settlers took this province didn't they?"

"Some years ago," Irene said.

"Exactly." Watson's smile was fixed and terrified. "I'd wager that to these people, one Englishman is quite like any other... They think we're here for their children!"

"Do you have a remedy for extreme paranoia?" Holmes asked. "Because with the greatest respect, old chap, I feel that you could make use of some."

"Is that so?" Watson dodged another stone; this one thrown from a distance of less than three metres. "Then why are none of the stones aimed at Irene?"

"Respect for a lady?" Irene suggested.

"Common chivalry?"

"How about the fact that Irene is an American...?"

Holmes did not answer, so Watson changed the subject.

"It really does make you ashamed to be English when you see the conditions these people live in..." Watson grimaced as they passed huts and shelters; some made out of only sheets of filthy linen propped up by wooden poles and housing up to seven people at a time. "Disease must be an enormous problem here." He frowned and paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. "As a doctor, I only wish there was something I could do..."

Before Holmes or Irene could answer, the horse pulling the cart gave a terrible whinny and reared; the cart bucking about while its passengers held on for dear life. The man at the horse's head struggled to keep it under control and pulled on its rope harness in an effort to calm it. Something had spooked the horse badly, and it took Watson a few seconds to work out what.

Though the dusk made it difficult to see properly, Watson could make out something lying in the road ahead. And experience meant he had a horrible idea of what it was. He dropped the handles of the cart and rushed over. As he had feared, in the road there lay a tiny little girl; thin and emaciated as if a substantial meal hadn't passed her lips in months. Watson's heart broke to look at her; particularly as she couldn't have been much older than his own daughters at home.

By this time, Holmes and Irene had joined him in the road and without a word, Irene fetched Watson's leather portmanteau from the luggage cart.

"What's happened to her?" Irene whispered as Watson leant over the tiny girl, listening for her heartbeat.

"Malnutrition," Watson said grimly, "Is the most likely cause. But there's no way to say for definite." He shook his head. "Exhaustion...Starvation...Cholera...any number of terrible reasons; though not one of them justified as to why a young girl should face almost certain death on the streets of India."

Holmes sensed Watson was working himself into a collapse, and gently laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I don't think there is anything you can do for her..."

"There's always something..." Watson snatched his jacket from the back of the cart and wrapped the girl up inside it. "Support her, Irene." Irene did so, and Watson slipped the opening of a bottle of brandy between her parched lips. "I keep it for emergencies," Watson answered Irene's quizzical look. "It's thought to numb the pain or bring patients out of delirium." He smiled as the little girl opened her eyes slowly. "If anything, it will help to make her more comfortable..."

"Don't overdo it," Holmes advised. "She _is_ only a girl, Watson..."

Watson corked the bottle and gently lifted the little girl so she was out of the road. It always caused him great heartache to abandon a patient, but it was naive to assume the Maharaja would take kindly to his arriving at the door of the Royal palace with a malnourished girl in his arms. Besides, he reasoned as he returned unwillingly to the luggage cart, the girl would almost certainly have parents that were looking for her...

Nevertheless, Watson made his mind up to return to the village at first light so as to tend to as many people as possible. Even if the girl could not be helped, there would always be those who could.

He noticed the palace gates opening up to receive them as they climbed the hill. And he also noticed that the villagers were no longer hurling stones.

* * *

A homely light shone from within the confines of a tiny building that sat on the edge of the wall surrounding the palace. It was positioned adjacently to the gate so that the only way to pass through to the Royal palace was to first pass the cabin. It seemed to Holmes that -after a few seconds of observation- that the cabin had been erected long after the wall had been build around the palace. The brickwork of the wall was far more weathered than that of the cabin; and no climbing plants covered its surface. Next to the wall and the palace within, the small building looked horribly out of place. Perhaps this was the idea...

"That's the office of the Guard," Irene said, loud enough that Watson could hear her as well as Holmes.

"When you say 'Guard'," Watson said, coming up behind them, "Do you mean..."

"The British Guard," Irene finished. "Yes."

Holmes stayed silent. He had worked that much out for himself.

They drew level with the cabin and a man stepped out from within. He was short and stout with a balding head and a bushy black beard. The fingernails of his hands were frighteningly short, Holmes observed. _A nervous habit? Or one stemming back to childhood...?_ He was dressed in black trousers and a red blazer adorned with gold trimmings and striped upon the shoulders. _A military man._.. Holmes was confident that this was the uniform worn by every member of the British Guard, and that every member would doubtless carry the same weapons. He eyed the bulge beneath the man's blazer that would point to a pair of pistols on a belt, in addition to the fearsome musket swung over one shoulder.

"I trust you have passage to be entering the palace at this time?" The guard looked them over suspiciously; noticing that they were not locals but clearly not trusting them.

"It's alright, Sergeant," Irene spoke up, the flash of her most charming smile unnoticed in the darkness. "His Highness is expecting us."

"Do you have means by which to confirm your invitation?" the guard asked pompously. He reminded Holmes inexplicably of Inspector Lestrade; though in attitude rather than appearance.

"Well why don't you send a man up to the palace?" Watson took over, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. "I'm sure His Highness can confirm anything you feel is in doubt, _Sergeant_."

The guard glared ferociously at Watson, but turned around and shouted through a window into the Guard Post.

"Wilkins, go up to the palace immediately and inform the Maharaja that a Miss..." He looked at Irene.

"Irene Holmes."

"Miss Holmes is here to see him. I want a full confirmation and a physical description of our guest before I go further."

An awkward five minutes passed while Wilkins was away in the palace. When the young Private returned, he brought with him a scroll signed by the Maharaja himself. Holmes read the lettering in reverse as it was held up to the light by the guard, but the latter took far longer to finish than he had.

"It appears you were correct," the guard said finally, setting down the letter with an expression on his face like he had been sucking halves of sour lemon. "You may pass through once you have been through the inspection process."

"What inspection process?" Watson asked.

"No weaponry is allowed inside the palace walls," the guard said firmly. "Please surrender your weapons and set them on the counter. They will be returned to you when you leave the province."

Watson didn't like the way the man regarded them. The way he had said _"When you leave the province" _was almost as if he knew they would not be staying long. Just how much power did the British Guard have over the Kashmir province? Enough to control security, maybe, but enough to control the people as well? Irene had told them that the Maharaja was a kind and generous man. Why then were the people of the village starving?

Holmes placed his revolver on the counter and Watson did the same. Irene also had a firearm, and the guard raised an eyebrow when she handed it over. They made to move through the gates, but the guard stopped them.

"Hold it right there..." He stepped out from the booth and glared at Irene. "When I told you to surrender all of your weapons, Madam, I meant for you to surrender _all_ of them!" Without another word, he lifted the sleeve of Irene's shirt and slid out a shaped wooden cudgel. There was a thin razor blade in the opposite sleeve; a knife tucked into her left boot and what appeared to be a lengthy piece of razor wire wrapped underneath the collar of her white shirt. With a sullen look on her beautiful face, Irene surrendered them all and then stepped back, arms folded.

"You may pass." The guard stepped back inside the booth to allow them entry to the palace. When they had passed out of sight beneath the shadow of the palace roof, he left his post and stepped through a door into the main building.

The Guard Post was set off a much larger building where the guards slept and spent their free time. There was a dining hall, a kitchen, several sets of barracks, a private infirmary and a storage room among many others. At the end of a winding corridor was the office of the Captain of the Guard.

Drawing himself up straight and tall, the guard raised a fist and knocked three times on the door.

"Enter." A soft voice spoke from within.

"Excuse me, sir." The guard stepped into the crack of light shining through the now open door. "I apologise for the inconvenience, but I think you would be most interested to know who has just arrived at the Post..."

* * *

**Author's Note: I have the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to thank for Holmes' little trick with the Vaseline, as those of you who have read The Adventures of the Dying Detective will have realised! Just thought I should mention that one, even though I would like nothing better than to take credit for such a brilliant idea myself! :P **


	13. Authority

**Author's Note: Apologies...this chapter is rather long. I'm hoping I won't have _too_ many complaints! =) Enjoy!**

* * *

"No weapons inside the walls," Irene murmured. "That's a new one..." She shook back a curl of hair which had fallen -damp with sweat- in front of her eyes.

"The British settlers are concerned," Holmes observed. He walked half a pace ahead of Irene and Watson, hands behind his back. He always moved faster when he was deep in thought. "They fear rebellion. They want to make sure that any weaponry that enters the province is held in their capable hands." He slicked his own hair back and glanced at Irene. "I'd wager they have already searched the village and removed anything that could prove dangerous to their stronghold of power." He slowed his pace til he stood level with Watson who was leaning heavily on his stick as he walked. "Although I am very much assured to see we still have _one_ weapon to our ranks."

Watson snorted and adjusted his grip on the cane that held the slim, deadly blade. "No weaponry...not on your life!" He looked around him, squinting through the darkness. "Shouldn't there be a guide or a butler to show us the way?"

"I daresay one will make himself known before long," Holmes answered.

They were walking through a garden brimming with ferns and flowers in startling shades of cerise and orange. In the daylight, it would be beautiful, Watson thought. Under the cover of darkness, it was just like any other garden. Save for the almost unbearable humidity, there was nothing to set it apart by night from Hyde Park in the summertime. But in the day, Watson knew it would come to life like a Christmas tree decked in candles or a baby from its mother's womb. This analogy made him pine suddenly for his family, and wondered just how long it would be until he could have Mary and the girls back in his arms.

Artificial light was shining down from a window above and in the pool of illumination, it was possible to see the shape and detail of the great palace before them. Though the British settlers had left their mark upon the land, their presence had done nothing to tarnish the beauty of what lay inside these walls. Smooth clay in a shade of brick red made up the walls of the palace; leading up to a dome-shaped roof.

The only way into the palace was through a towering arch in the brickwork, and beyond it was nothing but darkness. Holmes smiled to himself as they stepped through, sorely tempted to close his eyes. He didn't need his eyes in the dark, and chose instead to navigate using his other senses. But to close his eyes now would be out of nothing but arrogance. He suppressed the urge.

They had barely stepped inside the arch when there was a movement in the shadows. Instinctively, and before either Watson or Irene could react, Holmes struck out with an arm and grabbed at something in the darkness. There was a grunt and the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.

"What did you do?" Irene demanded. Beside her in the dark, she could visualise Watson rolling his eyes in despair.

"Simple arm-lock and fist to the carotid artery," Holmes said. "Instantaneous unconsciousness lasting for a minute or more. That should give us more than enough time to find out who he is..."

With Watson's help, Holmes dragged the unconscious man back through the archway and into the pool of light spilling from the upper window. He was dressed in robes of red with a delicate gold trim which told Holmes immediately (and with a sinking heart) that this man was a member of the palace staff. His skin was dark, as was his hair. The man was a local villager; it was obvious to all present. Beside Holmes, Watson let out a sigh.

"Well congratulations, Holmes," he said, "You've just incapacitated our guide!"

"You must never let your guard down, Watson, not even for a second." Holmes was (and always had been) an expert at talking his way out of an unpleasant situation. "An innocent guide he may have been, but next time it could be a real assailant and it could be your family he is after. Remember that."

"What shall we do with him?" Irene asked, trying to put an end to Holmes and Watson's words before it escalated into a row.

"What are the options?" asked Holmes.

"Drag him behind a wall and leave him there, or wait until he wakes up," put in Watson.

"Fascinating. Allow me to consider..."

"You know that was the coward's way out?" Watson commented as they walked briskly through the darkness, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the man who Holmes had knocked unconscious.

"Perhaps," Holmes said, "But when he wakes up, that guide will be a most unhappy man, and it would be in everyone's best interests if he woke up alone."

"And what's he going to tell the Maharaja?" Irene asked.

"Considering their current predicament, my vote would be towards blaming the British settlers," Holmes answered, slowing finally to an ordinary pace. "When there is no obvious perpetrator, human nature dictates we use our most insufferable adversaries as a scapegoat; in this case, the British soldiers who have ripped their land apart."

Watson was breathless, but managed a sardonic laugh nonetheless. "We're British too, Holmes...I love you how keep forgetting that!"

A crack of light had appeared ahead of them, as if somebody had opened a door. When they reached its source, there was indeed an open door with two expressionless footmen awaiting their arrival. With a peculiar pang of guilt and amusement, Watson noticed they wore the same red and gold robes of the unconscious man they had left at the opposite end of the passage.

Inside the palace, the floors were made from marble tiles and the walls lined with tiles made from the same smooth stone. At the far end of a long corridor lay another door with another two footmen on either side.

"You've got two choices," Irene whispered to Holmes as they approached the door. "When we get inside you have to behave yourself, or shut up and let me do the talking." Holmes did not answer, and it was more than clear to Irene that he planned on doing neither one.

"Should we be nervous?" Watson asked Irene.

"Of course not." She smiled sweetly. "The Maharaja is incredibly welcoming."

Holmes saw straight through Irene's smile. In fact, he could practically hear her heart hammering out of synch in her chest.

"Calm yourself, Watson," he said. "_We_ have nothing to fear..."

Before Irene could deliver a retort, the footmen swung the doors open and revealed the room behind. It was a banqueting hall, and by far the most luxurious Holmes or Watson had ever seen. The floor, like the hallways, was marble and the walls were painted illustriously with intricate golden patterns. Upon closer observation, Watson saw they were paintings of the Gods of Hinduism; stretched out like an enormous mural.

Casting a swift glace around the occupants of the hall, Holmes counted close to twenty people gathered around a great gold throne. And astride the gold throne sat the Maharaja.

To Watson's mind, the Royal Court of the Maharaja of Kashmir was like something out of a dream or perhaps one of Mary's continental novels. The Maharaja himself was a stout man with a bushy black beard. He was clad in robes of fine gold silk with an exquisite headscarf wrapped around his head. A large and expensive ruby sat on the peak of the scarf right above his forehead; casting a pleasant light upon two kindly brown eyes.

There were well-dressed people on all sides- Lords and Ladies of sorts, Watson assumed. On either side of the Maharaja stood three women in the same red robes as the footmen. They held enormous fans made of bamboo canes and crepe. They all fell silent from their conversations and looked up as Holmes, Irene and Watson approached the throne.

Though Holmes had entered the room a step ahead of Watson and Irene and enjoyed the consequential assumption that he was the one in charge of the group. However, the balance of power shifted almost immediately as they came to a halt before the Maharaja's throne. Without saying a word, Irene stepped forward and Holmes let her take position ahead of him. This was Irene's territory. She knew the ropes and Holmes knew it would be unwise to step on her toes over this one.

Irene looked behind her first at Watson, and then over the opposite shoulder at Holmes.

"Do as I do. No arguments." Dropping her head low, she sank to one knee and bowed before the Maharaja's throne. Watson and Holmes copied her; suddenly nervous about the way their homage would be received.

The silence was interminable as the Maharaja rose from his throne and approached them. His mind overflowing with worries that the Maharaja would be less than welcoming to two Englishmen and an American who stole his sapphire, Watson found himself clutching his cane so tightly that his knuckles began to turn white.

The Maharaja reached Irene first and looked down upon her from his greater height. He put a hand on each side of her face and lifted her to her feet. Watson made to move, but Holmes grabbed his arm and stopped him. When Watson looked at him, he merely shook his head; denying him any further movement.

When Irene was standing straight, the Maharaja tilted her head towards him. Breaking into an unexpected smile, he kissed her forehead in greeting.

"Welcome back, Miss Irene." He spoke English, but with an accent; subjugated, no doubt, by the controlling British settlers. The Maharaja turned his gaze on Holmes and Watson. "And you bring guest this time, yes?"

"Your Highness, allow me to present my husband- Sherlock Holmes, and his trusted confidante- Dr John Watson."

The Maharaja approached Watson and greeted him in the same way he had Irene. Watson felt his nerves evaporating as he looked into the Maharaja's eyes and saw a peculiar kind of gratitude.

"You are doctor...?"

"I am." Watson thought it proper to answer the Maharaja's questions. "Your Highness," he added quickly.

"I have heard already of you," the Maharaja said with a smile. "You help children in the village..."

Watson thought of the little girl he had helped while passing through the village earlier. He was surprised news of his actions had reached the Maharaja so quickly.

"Yes, I did help her," Watson answered. "It aggrieves me, Your Highness, to see the conditions the people are living in down in the village."

"It saddens me also." The Maharaja frowned. "We had good doctor here," he said, "But he was killed by British settlers." He looked thoughtfully at Watson. "You helped the girl," he said slowly, "Perhaps...you could help others...?"

"Of course." Watson nodded assertively. "If there's anything I can do to help..."

"We are not used to compassion," the Maharaja said with a wry smile. "You are good man, Doctor Watson, to consider helping us."

"Nothing more than my duty, Your Highness."

"You have a kind heart," The Maharaja said. "You will be rewarded one day..."

With a final smile, he turned his scrutiny upon Holmes; lifting him to his feet as he had Irene and Watson. When he leaned in to kiss Holmes' forehead, the detective saw beyond the appreciation in his eyes to a cloud of despondency and inertia. This, Holmes knew, was a man who hid behind a fragile veil of joviality and a good name to prevent the truth from emerging- his once great land had been ripped to pieces before his eyes while he sat still, powerless to stop it. He had most likely lost family members; seen friends killed before his eyes and his subjects suffering beyond belief. Though the Maharaja seemed relaxed and jolly, Holmes could practically see him treading carefully along a knife edge, waiting alert for something to disturb the peace.

"And this is your husband..." The Maharaja smiled warmly at Holmes. "Mr Holmes, your wife tells us much about you on her last visit. You are..." He struggled to find the correct word in English. "An investigator?"

"Detective." A beautiful girl who sat at the Maharaja's left spoke up. Holmes noticed she did not wear the red robes of the palace staff, but a golden sari made from the same silk as the Maharaja's robes.

"Ah yes, a detective." The Maharaja smiled at the girl, speaking words of thanks in Hindi.

"You are correct, Your Highness." Holmes nodded graciously, amused no end by the fact that Irene had obviously been speaking of him as her husband way back when she had last visited. It was the measure of the woman's mind that she thought so far ahead in order to plan her next move.

"Very good." Again, the Maharaja smiled warmly. "Any husband of Miss Irene is welcome here, Mr Holmes."

He turned back to his throne, taking his seat and looking down upon Irene, Watson and Holmes. They were welcomed to take seats at the edge of the crowd near to the base of the throne.

The Maharaja turned to his left and indicated the girl in the stunning gold robes who had spoken earlier. "Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes, my daughter. Her name is Jhasmine."

Unsure of how to properly greet an Indian princess, Holmes and Watson simply bowed their heads respectfully. Jhasmine was one of the most beautiful women either man had ever seen. Her hair was ebony and shone beautifully as it cascaded down to the small of her back. On her slender wrist hung several jade bangles and she played with them absent-mindedly with a free hand as her father spoke.

The Maharaja looked on fondly, but not without some concern. "She is fluent in English now," he said proudly. "She is twenty one years next month, so I search for a husband for her now." He laughed merrily and turned to his right. For the first time, Holmes noticed a young man sat on the other side of the throne.

"My son..." Before the Maharaja could introduce him by name, the son got up from his position and shook both Holmes and Watson by the hand.

"An English custom, I think," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I am Jamal."

"You speak wonderful English," Watson commented.

"I learn from my sister," Jamal said. "She tell me I am a slow learner..." He turned to Irene and bowed low before her. "My lady..."

"It's me who should be bowing," Irene said, laughing. "You're a Royal. Get back up on that throne, _Your Highness_!"

Irene was hardly showing a suitable level of respect, but the Maharaja merely looked on with a smile as Irene and Jamal laughed together. Holmes felt a prickle of unpleasantness creep up from the pit of his stomach. He remembered all too well the gleam in Irene's eyes when -back in their hotel room- she had mentioned the Maharaja having a son...

Holmes was so lost in thought that he barely had time to react when Irene suddenly stumbled backwards as if bearing a great weight. He jumped to attention and caught her before she could fall. The Maharaja was on his feet now, watching through concerned eyes as Holmes too began to struggle under Irene's weight. _What had made her so heavy?_ He certainly did not remember Irene weighing such a great amount... And then, he noticed what had happened. While talking to Irene, Jamal had apparently blacked out and fallen forwards into Irene. She still held his body; a dead weight in her arms.

"Put him on the floor." Watson's was the voice of reason as his medical instincts kicked in. He helped Irene to lay Jamal down on the ground and checked his airways to ensure he was still breathing. All the while, the Maharaja seemed unconcerned and sat back in his throne.

Before Watson could enquire, Jamal's eyes opened and he sat up as if nothing at all had occurred.

"You must not worry, Doctor Watson," the Maharaja told him. "My son...he suffers from an illness. He is awake, then asleep, and then he is awake again..." He frowned at his son worriedly. "Since his mother dies, I worry about him daily... You see, we do not know what it is that afflicts him so..."

"Narcolepsy."

The Maharaja blinked once. "Please, I do not understand..."

"The condition your son suffers from is called narcolepsy," Watson explained. "He falls into unconsciousness without warning, only to wake again seconds later."

"Narcolepsy..." The Maharaja rolled the word over his tongue, trying to get to grips with the pronunciation. "Nar-co-lep-sy. Is there cure?"

"I'm afraid not," Watson told him. "I wish I could give you good news, Your Highness, but there is currently no known cure for narcolepsy." He turned to Jamal. "However, there are some precautions you can take to ensure that your fits of unconsciousness do not-"

Before Watson could finish speaking, the double doors of the hall swung open to reveal a man in the red robes of the palace staff. He rushed to the Maharaja's throne, fell to his knees in a hurried bow and began to speak hurriedly in Hindi. The Maharaja listened intently, nodding every few seconds and asking the occasional question. When at last the man was finished, the Maharaja turned to Irene, Watson and Holmes.

"He come to tell me that one of our men has been wounded by British Guard at the palace gates."

"If you don't mind me asking, Your Highness," Watson began with a hint of derision, "How _exactly_ was the man injured..?"

"He was struck in the neck," said the Maharaja gravely. "They have acted this way in the past, and no doubt in the future also..." He was watching the now closed doors of the hall; ears cocked as if listening for any sounds of commotion outside. "I send my men to guard the palace," he told them. "When the coast is clear, one of them will take you to your beds."

There was a crash from afar and the sound of heavy footsteps pounding along the corridor. The room was awash with panic as women scrambled behind their husbands and Jamal picked himself up from the floor to position himself before his sister. As befitted his role, Holmes took Irene's arm and jostled her to one side with Watson close behind. They barely had time to draw breath before the doors of the hall burst open once again and a torrent of men burst through. Each wore the red blazer and black trousers of the British Guard and (to Watson's dismay) each held a musket in an offensive position under one arm.

Twenty or so men had entered the hall, but now they all stood to the side to let one man pass. He was clearly their leader, for he walked with an arrogance that could only have been born of authority. This man held no musket, but instead favoured a revolver he kept tucked into a belt beneath his blazer. Had he not tapped the holster every few seconds as he walked, nobody would have even been aware of its existence.

The man now reached the front of the hall and stopped still before the Maharaja's throne. Holmes took in the man's dimensions when compared to his own, and realised that aside from Blackwood's man Dredger, he had seldom stood before such a large adversary. The man before him stood a few inches taller even than Watson and was a good deal wider and stockier than either Doctor or Detective. Even as he walked, he would scratch every few seconds at an inflamed patch on his neck. _Shaving rash._ This was a man who took great care with his appearance; proved further by his carefully cultivated blonde locks which were combed illustriously across his broad forehead. He was handsome, Holmes observed. Sickeningly so, with large, greedy blue eyes. As he caught sight of Irene, they gave him the impression of a cat crouching over a dish of cream.

"I don't know what you think you are playing at, Maharaja," the man spoke with a drawling British accent that immediately got under Watson's skin, "But I believe you are harbouring a fugitive..."

"I hide no fugitive, Alcott." Watson was surprised at the level of strength and serenity in the Maharaja's voice. "Only an innocent woman, and we will protect her."

Alcott laughed nastily, shaking his head with disdain. "And what protection do you hope to offer? I'd have thought you knew by now how the system works." He turned slowly and locked his gaze onto Irene. Holmes still held her arm tightly, and he felt her tense irrefutably as he neared.

"Miss Adler," Alcott said, taking a step in Irene's direction. "What a grave mistake you made in returning to India. Grave, that its, for you..." He clicked his fingers in the direction of the guards. "Arrest her."

"Oh what charges?" It was Holmes who spoke, and almost everyone in the room turned to look at him curiously.

Holmes watched gleefully as a new hatred began to trickle into the limpid pools of Alcott's eyes. It was clear that the head of the British Guard was not accustomed to backchat, and Holmes thought it best if he got the first word in.

"Sergeant Alcott, is it...?"

"_Captain_." Alcott spat the word as he glared at Holmes. "Captain Bernard Alcott, Her Majesty's Guard."

"My apologies." Holmes tucked his hands neatly behind his back and eyed the line of stripes on the shoulder of Alcott's blazer. "I was under the impression that amount of striped equated to the rank of Sergeant and not to that of Captain." He smiled innocently, moving to stand in front of Irene. "Of course, you do things rather differently over here away from the eye of Her Majesty..."

Holmes was delighted to see he had gotten under Alcott's skin as the latter gritted his teeth before speaking.

"If you would be so kind as to step out of the way, sir, I have a job to do."

"And what does that job entail?"

Alcott looked around Holmes to where Irene was standing, a defiant expression on her face. "The woman you stand before has committed a heinous crime against the British Empire."

This was too much for Watson, who emitted an explosive noise halfway between a laugh and an exclamation of fury. "Against the British Empire? The Queen's Sapphire belongs to the people of the Kashmir province, not to the British settlers!"

"Oh, so you are aware of the crime Miss Adler has committed?" Alcott smiled triumphantly. He looked 'round at his guards. "I think that constitutes a confession, don't you?"

"That is no form of justice!" This time, it was Jamal who spoke. "A confession comes only from Mrs Holmes herself."

Alcott knitted his brows together. "Unless I am mistaken, the criminal in question is Miss Irene Adler..."

"I'm afraid you _are_ mistaken, Alcott," said the Maharaja. "Miss Irene is married now."

Alcott's face seemed to flush around the cheekbones. "Married?" he spluttered. "To whom?"

Holmes took a step forward, enjoying the moment as Alcott's face turned from red, to purple, to blue and back to flushed red again. Irene stepped with him, clearly not wanting to leave his side.

"Sherlock Holmes." Holmes introduced himself, never breaking eye-contact with Alcott. "Now, I would be interested to hear exactly the charges that you wish to press against my wife."

"Theft of the Queen's Sapphire," Alcott began pompously, "The murder of three guards; resisting arrest; damage to property; possession of firearms-"

"All charges are void," the Maharaja interrupted.

Alcott whipped around to face the throne, fingering the revolver stashed beneath his blazer as a constant reminder of the power he wielded. "Maharaja, you forget yourself!"

"Miss Irene is married woman now." The Maharaja nodded to a red-robed butler, and the latter scrambled from the room. "While she is a Royal guest, it falls to myself to..." He looked to Jhasmine for help with the grammar.

"While she is a guest of the Royal Family, it falls to my father to decide on a course of justice." Jhasmine spoke woodenly, as if reluctant to make her voice heard before Alcott.

The butler returned with a paper scroll, tied with a red ribbon. He handed it nervously to Alcott, who snatched it from his hands and nearly ripped the ribbon in trying to unroll the parchment. As he read, Holmes noticed Alcott's face flushing once again. The head of the British Guard had a face which changed colour quicker than a chameleon!

"You believe this piece of jurisdiction will protect you?" Alcott sneered when he had gathered his wits about him. "Nothing more than ancient protocol, centuries out of date."

One of Alcott's guards tapped him on the shoulder. He wore one less stripe than Alcott, and several more than the other guards. Holmes guessed at once that he was the second in command.

"Sir, might I suggest that we leave this one alone for the time being..?"

Alcott rounded on him. "What on Earth would prompt such a thought?"

"I think it would be wise to withhold the arrest until we have sufficient evidence."

"When I require your input, Hawthorne, I shall ask for it," Alcott snapped. He smiled horribly in Irene's direction. "Married or not, _Mrs Holmes_, you are coming with me."

"A warrant?"

Alcott glared at Holmes, as if wishing he would keep his mouth shut. "What?"

"Before I will allow you to take my wife, I would like to see the warrant for her arrest."

"There is no warrant," Alcott snapped. "A document signed by Her Majesty grants us the power to arrest and suitably punish any person who on our land commits a crime forbidden by the-"

"On your land, you say...?" Holmes strode thoughtfully along the line of Royal guests to stand directly in front of Alcott; a brave move since Alcott was the taller man by more than a head. "What about on foreign soil?"

"There is no 'foreign soil'," Alcott practically shouted. "This land is controlled by the British Empire!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Not _quite_ all of it..." He turned to the Maharaja. "Tell me, Your Highness, does such a thing as a Foreign Ambassador exist here in Kashmir?"

"Yes," the Maharaja confirmed. "We have embassy in Delhi."

"How very civilised of you," Holmes commented. "I trust you have a representative?"

Alcott shook his head disdainfully. "I admire your determination, Mr Holmes," he said sardonically, "But the British Ambassador in this country is controlled by the Empire. A British citizen reporting to the Embassy is as good as putting their fate in the hands of the British Guard."

"That may be the case," Holmes said, smiling, "But I think you will find my wife is not a British citizen..."

There was a long and awkward silence while Alcott considered the implications of what Holmes was saying.

"Consequently," Holmes continued, "To arrest a foreign citizen in a country where she is protected by an Ambassador would require a warrant for arrest signed by the British Home Secretary." He fixed his steely, unblinking stare upon Alcott. "And I assure you, the Americans will fight tooth and nail to ensure that you do not serve injustice upon one of their citizens." He took Irene's arm once again. "As will I in order to protect my wife."

"Sir?" Second in command Hawthorne was watching Alcott expectantly, waiting for orders to retreat.

"Watson," Holmes turned to his friend, "How long would you estimate a warrant of such would take to arrive from London? A week? Two weeks?"

"Two weeks," Watson confirmed. "At least."

"Excellent." Holmes clapped his hands together and had the blind audacity to smile at Alcott. "We'll be seeing you in a fortnight then, Captain...?"

Alcott growled and made to move towards Holmes. Holmes was ready to defend against such an attack, but Hawthorne caught the Captain's arm and restrained him.

"Captain, I would advise you to leave this alone for the time being."

"Sergeant Hawthorne, I-"

"We can come back with a warrant," Hawthorne bribed. "Just come away now, Sir. There's nothing more that can be done for the moment."

Somewhere within Alcott's mind, it registered that his second in command was speaking sense. Pausing only to fix a baleful glare upon Holmes and Irene, he turned on his heel and swept from the room. Holmes thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy on the face of Hawthorne before he too exited the room pursued by the other guards.

As the hall doors swung shut behind the last of the guards, Irene breathed out a shuddering gasp and collapsed into Holmes' arms.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..." She felt comforted beyond description at the feeling of his arms; protecting her and guarding her.

Holmes set her down a little uncomfortably, aware of the fact that she was shaking with apparent fright.

"So," Watson said, clearing his throat and tapping his cane on the marble flooring, "We have two weeks now to find the real thief and clear Irene's name?"

"Indeed." Holmes was stuffing tobacco into the barrel of his clay pipe. "Most engaging, wouldn't you agree Watson?" HHhhkk

Holmes

"Not the word I would use." Watson rolled his eyes. "You just love a challenge, don't you?"

"I thrive under it." Holmes took a long drag on his pipe, sighing contentedly.

"I thank you also, Mr Holmes," said the Maharaja, stepping down from his throne and clasping Holmes' hand in gratitude. "But these men, they have no respect. They will be back..."

"Oh, I am sure they will," Holmes said serenely. "As my colleague stated, we have two weeks at most before a warrant granting Irene's arrest will arrive in the hands of the..." He coughed. "_Competent_ Captain Alcott." He turned to look between Irene and Watson. "We should ensure we are well rested for the morning."

"Of course," the Maharaja said, waving over another butler. "I have my men show you your rooms. You must be tired after such long journey."

"Exhausted," Watson said truthfully. "Thank you, Your Highness."

Once they had exited the hall and he was satisfied that both Watson and their guide were a suitable distance away, Holmes leaned over to whisper into Irene's ear.

"If you would be so kind as to help me remove the ring, I would be most grateful." He wiggled the fingers of his left hand where the wedding ring held prize position on his fourth finger.

Irene laughed nervously as if she did not quite understand. "Why would you want to take it off? For the purposes of this case, you're my husband and I'm your wife." She held up her own hand. "If the rings go, the illusion is lost..."

"The purpose of this whole charade of marriage was to protect you from immediate arrest," Holmes said. "Ancient protocol it may be, but I think Alcott made it _quite_ clear he cares little for traditional values. I see no sense in keeping the rings on since no marriage is going to protect you once Alcott has that warrant."

"The ring _is_ protecting me," Irene argued, and Holmes noticed at once that her voice had taken on a distinctly frightened edge. "_You're_ protecting me by wearing it..." She stopped still in the palace corridor and clasped Holmes' forearms. "Promise me you won't take it off. Promise me you'll keep up the act."

"For what purpose?"

"I can't explain," Irene said solemnly. "It's complicated... Just promise me, Sherlock."

Holmes stared unwillingly at the floor, refusing to look at her.

"Sherlock, _please..._" Cupping his cheeks in her hands, Irene raised his face to the light so it was level with hers. Holmes knew it was a lost cause the second that he met her gaze.

"You have my word." _That woman..._

"Thank you." She kissed him, tenderly, if only for a second. Then she walked away, chocolate curls bouncing about her shoulders and down her back as she moved.

Holmes stood still for a second before following. Watson had been right, of course- there was more to this case than met the eye. An aptitude for honesty had never been one of Irene's celebrated qualities, but now it seemed she was repeating old tricks and keeping important facts to herself.

With or without The Woman's cooperation, Holmes was determined to solve the case not just for his client, but for his own professional integrity. Watson could always be counted upon, as could his own instincts.

_Who needs a Woman's touch nowadays, anyhow..._


	14. The Truth or Something Beautiful

**Author's Note: Ooh, sorry it's been a while, but here is chapter 14- Named after one of my fave songs atm ;) I was really thrilled at having a load of PM suggestions from you guys about what you think Irene is keeping from Holmes and the real reason behind their 'marriage'. Some were seriously close to the mark... Read on to discover if you were right! :P Ah well, I'm rambling on at you now... Chapter 14- ENJOY! =D**

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_Dear Mary  
_

_Since the birth of the twins, you and I have barely spent a day apart. Now I find myself in a situation where I have not laid eyes on you for more than two weeks. It is most unsettling. I don't know if time really does fly when you are having fun, but it most definitely drags when you are not! We have been in India for two days now, and are sadly no closer to solving the mystery which keeps me away from my family; despite Holmes' best efforts of investigation. This, of course, I mean with overall sarcasm as the extent of the 'Great Detective's' efforts so far have been to individually study every member of the palace staff before retiring to his room every night with a large collection of narcotics and other substances I now suspect have been taken from my own portmanteau. I know you will tell me to confiscate the bottles he has taken, but he appears adept at hiding them from me. If helping Sherlock Holmes to escape the clutches of addiction involves strip-searching him for evidence, I have to say I would rather let him continue!_

_Despite my traumatic experiences in India, I find myself more than able to appreciate the beauty and splendour of this province in particular. Our lodgings are situated in a building entirely separate from the Royal Palace, but still within the palace walls. The palace itself is built around an enormous courtyard; passage through which will lead you to a tower. We have been forbidden entry to this tower as it serves as the private quarters of the Maharaja's daughter, Jhasmine. How long His Royal Highness anticipates he can keep Holmes away from taking the tower by storm remains to be seen. _

_I have strived to stay positive throughout the venture, but the days pass unnoticed, and I feel my depression growing; depression I feel would be easier to bear if you were here by my side. While there is no use in being despondent, I can't help but wish that the next two weeks would pass quicker so I can begin counting the days until I can be with you and the girls once again._

_I know they are too young to understand, but please wish Rose and Tilly a Happy Birthday on my behalf. When I return, I will bring birthday presents with me- presents that Uncle Sherlock shall be paying for! _

_All my love now and forever, my darling_

_John _

* * *

As the bell for afternoon tea rang inside the palace walls, Watson knocked firmly on the bedroom door. As per their disguise as a married couple, Irene and Holmes had been placed once again in a room together; the repercussions of which amused Watson no end. But the humour surrounding the situation could only sweeten Watson's temperament for so long and the absence of his family seemed to further pressurise his ever-decreasing amounts of patience. He gave Holmes two days. That was when his patience had finally run out.

There was no answer to his first knock, so he tried again. After three attempts, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Good _Lord!" _Watson clapped a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, breaking into a violent bout of coughing. "Holmes, how are you still breathing? This room smells like an opium den!"

He struggled to a window and threw open the shutters, ignoring Holmes' moans of protest as bright Indian sunshine streamed in through the windows.

"It's a beautiful day, Holmes," Watson enthused. "Not a cloud in the sky."

"Is it morning already?" Holmes mumbled from somewhere deep within a cloud of tobacco smoke. "I have hardly seen you these two days, Watson... As much as it pains me to say it, I _have_ missed your dulcet tones of misery and disdain."

"You have been in this room for two days now," Watson said, adopting the 'no-nonsense' tone he reserved for Holmes' most insubordinate moments. "Isn't it high time you..." He plucked an almost empty bottle of clear liquid off the dresser and sniffed it warily. "...Stopped helping yourself to my medical supplies and began to formulate some sort of plan?"

"Perhaps," Holmes said, "But what is life without its distractions?" Watson could almost see the happy smile on the face of the detective as he heaved himself out of his armchair and tottered over to where Watson stood.

"Take a bath and put on some clean clothes," Watson ordered, taking a smart step backwards as he was hit by the eye-watering stench of stale tobacco.

"And there I was believing you came to see me because you enjoy my company."

"Well, this _is_ how we operate," Watson said as he tucked the confiscated bottles into his trouser pocket. "You fall into a drug-induced, boredom-fuelled stupor of indolence and I am always at hand to dig you up again."

"I wouldn't have it any other way!" Holmes clapped his hands together and stretched like a cat. He snatched a shaving brush and a razor from a drawer.

"That's my brush!" Watson snatched it from him for a closer look. "How long have you had this? I've been searching for it for months now."

"Closer to years," Holmes told him casually. "You left it behind when you moved out the last of your belongings. I utilised it once you were gone; my own was quite worn out. He reached out and plucked it out of Watson's grasp. "Since you're no longer using it, old chap..."

Holmes approached the basin and raised the razor blade to his face. He paused when he realised Watson was still watching him.

"I _am_ capable of shaving myself without supervision..."

"Do we have a plan, then?"

"Of course we do."

"Oh." Watson feigned surprise. "Enlighten me, please."

"I shall." Holmes rubbed a hand across the stubble on his cheeks and chin. "But first, tell me... Tell me..."

"Yes?"

"Tell me... Is there any water in your basin?"

"_What?"_

"My basin is empty and I need to shave," Holmes said calmly. "The basins are filled daily with fresh water, but nobody has been inside this room for days..."

"I wonder why." Watson rolled his eyes, but flicked a hand towards the door. "Yes, of course, go on."

Filled with a sudden burst of energy, Holmes bounded towards the door, brush and blade in hand.

"So what _is_ the plan, Holmes?" Watson shouted after him.

Holmes' head appeared around the corner of the doorframe.

"The circular pool at the East side of the Palace gardens. There's a wall decorated with mosaic tiles and a fountain, I believe. Meet there in..." Holmes nipped back into the room and pulled Watson's pocket watch from his trousers. "...Twenty minutes from now. Keep close to the wall, we want to avoid attracting attention. Oh, and one more thing..."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Find my wife. Adieu..."

* * *

"Day two in paradise," Holmes said drolly. "Process has been, I'll admit, painfully slow since our arrival..."

"And whose fault is that?" Watson asked sardonically.

"...Or so it would seem." Holmes ignored Watson's comments. "While I would have you believing I have spent the last two days otherwise engaged..." He refused to meet Watson's eye, "I have in fact been poised for a number of hours on the threshold of a significant breakthrough."

Watson glanced at Irene, a shared feeling of unease passing in their gaze. The Woman was clad in a dress of jade green with black heeled shoes and her hair hanging loose down her back. Even in the heat of the sun, she had not spared the perfume, and Watson guessed that the smell of her was driving Holmes quite mad.

"The current climate, so to speak, has forced the Royal Family to form a tight alliance against the British settlers," Holmes went on, his manner businesslike as it always was when he was addressing an audience. "A firm union they may be, but in a strong chain, there is always a weak link." Holmes surveyed his companions. "We find that link, and we are in with a chance of breaking the chain."

"But we're talking about the Royal Family," Watson argued. "They are the victims here, surely? If we are here to break anyone, it should be Alcott and the British Guard..."

"They are interwoven as one, Watson; there is little room for distinction." Holmes stretched his arms out in front of him and yawned. "Dear, dear, this afternoon sun is enough to make one feel incredibly drowsy..."

"So what you are saying is we need to bring down Alcott and therefore risk the Maharaja's safety as well?" Watson raised an eyebrow. "Drifting away from the task at hand somewhat, aren't we?"

"Perhaps. But without the correct information, we have no hope of solving this case," Holmes said. "Some we know already: for example, dear Irene here has been wrongly accused of taking the priceless Queen's Sapphire from this province; a jewel which is indeed missing... What does that indicate?"

Watson thought for a moment. "That someone else took the sapphire and Irene is merely their scapegoat."

"Precisely," Holmes agreed. "Subsequently someone within the province is the real thief and it remains to us to discover the identity of that person." He lit up his pipe and inhaled thoughtfully. "But they will not be prepared to surrender their secret willingly; hence the plan."

"I see where you're going with this." Irene spoke for the first time. "Whoever the real thief is, that person is the 'weak link' in the chain, right?"

"Correct." Holmes was unsurprised Irene had made the connection.

"So if we break the 'weak link', we get inside the chain..."

"...If we get inside the chain, we find the real thief," Irene finished.

"And now all that remains is to find that person," Watson summarised. "Any inclinations so far, Holmes?"

"He already knows," Irene scoffed with a dry smile.

"Of course he does," Watson agreed.

"Of course I do." Holmes dipped a hand into the bowl of the fountain and pulled out a handful of the white round pebbles which coated the bottom. "Let us say that each of these stones represents a figure of our interest..." He laid one down on the ground by Watson's feet. "The Maharaja is first, of course. What of the facts?"

"Influential."

"Possibly."

"Powerful."

"Not for much longer."

"Intimidated."

"Absolutely. And we know who by..."

"Captain Alcott." Watson and Irene both grimaced.

"_Sergeant_ Alcott," Holmes corrected with a mischievous gleam in his eye. He laid down another pebble beside the first.

"Head of the British Guard."

"Antagonist."

"Suspect?"

"Quite possibly, Watson," Holmes approved. "Alcott didn't seem to react kindly to our presence; more so than I would usually expect, which would suggest...?"

"He has something to hide." Watson nodded his agreement.

"But how do we crack Alcott?" Irene asked.

"Perhaps we don't have to..." Holmes held up another pebble. "Tell me about Sergeant Hawthorne..."

"Alcott's deputy?" asked Watson.

"He's the one who pulled Alcott off the arrest," Irene put in. "To be honest, he saved my skin the last time I was here as well..."

"Alcott tried to arrest you the last time?"

"Hawthorne convinced him to let it go to trial," Irene told Watson after a long pause. "Of course a trial under Alcott would end in a hanging, but it gave me a chance to escape."

"So Hawthorne believes in fair justice," Watson mused.

"Hawthorne has several times defied the wishes of his Captain in favour of better judgement," Holmes said, laying down the pebble. "Perhaps he operates a policy of diplomacy, or perhaps...?"

"...He knows Irene is innocent."

Holmes nodded.

"So Hawthorne is the 'weak link'?" Irene guessed.

"Not quite." Holmes held up two more pebbles, one in each hand. "Consider looking closer to home. Consider the Royal bloodline..."

"The Maharaja's children."

Holmes snapped his fingers and smiled at Irene. "Spot on." He waved the first -slightly larger- pebble. "His son..."

"Jamal."

"Narcoleptic." Watson shook his head. "But surely that's irrelevant..."

"Not necessarily," said Holmes. "How many times must I say it, Watson- Never discount a viable fact as a form of appropriate evidence until you have undeniable proof it is unconnected to the case." He shook his head, mocking Watson to the core. "That said, I believe there is by far a more important fact surrounding the young prince. As we discovered yesterday, he receives regular lessons in English from our final source..."

"Jhasmine?"

"The Maharaja's daughter..." Holmes placed rested his chin on his hands, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase as he dropped the final pebble into its position. "She speaks almost fluent English which has leant her the role of emissary to the Royal Family."

"So when her father wishes to arrange a liaison with the Guard..."

"...He sends her." Irene nodded. "It's true, I've seen it. Alcott won't come inside the palace as a rule, and the Maharaja would be in danger if he went to the Guard himself."

"But is his heir not in danger also?" Watson felt the gazes of both Holmes and Irene rest on him, and worked the truth out for himself. "Of course. She's not his heir, is she? Not in the eyes of the monarchy..."

"Rather than risk his own life or that of his first-born son, the Maharaja sends his youngest child; his daughter, to an audience with Alcott," Holmes said. "Naturally he feels guilty about putting his only daughter in harm's way, which is why he has gifted her with her own tower as a form of living space..."

"But how did _you_ work that out?" Watson asked curiously. "We know she speaks English, but nothing more."

"She does not merely speak English," Holmes said, "She is _fluent_ in English. That knowledge had to have come from somewhere. After all, if she is holding regular peacekeeping conversations with Alcott, I highly doubt he would address her in Hindi. He would expect her to learn his own language."

"Arrogant pig..."

"Not so, Irene," Holmes said with a smile. "Let us think of the gallant Sergeant Alcott as a snake winding its way through the undergrowth..."

Watson rolled his eyes, but could not help but listen to his friend's peculiar use of metaphor.

"A snake is sly. Furtive," Holmes continued. "Hands cannot hold its slippery scales for long; for he cuts his ties and ducks responsibility as easily as he sheds his skin. But inevitably, a predator will arise, and that will be his undoing." Holmes tucked his pipe back into his trouser pocket. "To summarise, ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have found our 'weak link'..." He indicated the most recently placed pebble. "Jhasmine is an impressionable young woman. No doubt she is also bitter that her father sends her to meetings with the Guard while the Prodigal Son sits in the safety of the palace. Perhaps she has overheard something during her visits; something that may be of use to us now... It would not take much for her to delegate her knowledge to another, and for this reason I propose we attach an informant to her side."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "Theoretically it could work," he said slowly. "But where will we find an informant?"

"We need someone to gain Jhasmine's trust," Holmes said. "The informant must carry a good name..."

"Or a good profession," Irene put in.

"Exactly. Such a person would usually prove difficult to define; let alone acquire..." Holmes shared a brief look with Irene; just to clarify they were on the same page. "However, in this case, I think we'll find it much easier than expected. Don't you agree, darling?"

"Oh yes," Irene said with a brief twinkle. "Should it be a rich businessman? Or a priest?"

"I can do you one better," Holmes said innocently. "What about a doctor...?"

Watson raised his head slowly to look directly at Holmes.

"No."

"Why on Earth not?"

"I will not lie to the poor girl, she's been through enough."

"To lie, and to be economical with the truth are two alarmingly different things," Holmes said delicately. "Befriend her, Watson. Gain her trust and learn the truth."

"Even better," Irene said, "Why not seduce her?"

"Have you lost your mind?" Watson exploded. "I am married, Miss Adler. _Married!_ Just because your marriage is a sham..."

"Where is your ring, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"My what?"

"Your wedding ring?"

"My...Oh. Watson looked down at his hand. "I suppose I must have left it in my room."

"You have been without it since we met at Victoria station some two weeks ago," Holmes told him complacently. "You have no ring and no suntan to show for it. I believe that was your _dear_ wife's mistake when we first met..."

"That was _your_ mistake, Holmes, not Mary's..."

"Moving swiftly onward..." Holmes cleared his throat. "We may never have an opportunity such as this again, Watson. Consider the prospect that for little more than a week of deceit, you could soon be back in the arms of your wife and the life you know so well."

"She's a princess," Watson argued feebly. "This is absurd, Holmes! Do you not think she'll have more preferable things to do with her time than conversing with a common visitor of her father's?"

"Who said anything about conversation?" Irene stood up and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Take it from me, Doctor, the conversation can wait til you've 'set up camp'. What you need to concentrate on right now it getting there." She reached behind Watson and pushed a palm into the small of his back so his spine straightened. Then she tapped the underside of his chin. "Back straight, chin slightly inclined," she said. "The way you walk is really important."

"I don't see what this has to do with..."

"It's human nature," Irene said simply. "If you go over there oozing charisma and flaunting your sexuality, you'll have her eating out of your hand."

"Miss Adler..."

"Once she's hooked, that's when you start the questions." Irene sat back down beside Holmes. "Trust me on this one. I know what I'm talking about."

"Of course," Holmes began, "There are other ways of getting her to talk; methods far more primal than a cultured walk or charismatic conversation..."

"I am _not_ going to touch that girl," Watson said icily. "I have Mary to consider. Besides, this is a depraved enough situation; even without your wanton suggestions!" He sighed. "Are you sure there isn't a better way?"

"Oh, I'm sure there is," Holmes said. "However, this is the only option we have at present. Will you play a part?"

"If I must..." Watson knew that he would regret his decision at some point in the near future. "What information do you want me to gather?"

"Snoop," Holmes told him. "You're good at that. I take it that it's not just my personal life you enjoy sticking your nose into..?"

"I'm not making any promises..."

"I have the utmost faith in you, old boy." Holmes looked up at the sky, noting the position of the sun. "Half past five. Nearly time for supper, I feel. Come along, dear." He offered an arm to Irene and looked back at Watson. "Jhasmine will be attending the evening meal with her family inside the palace. Perhaps you could catch her once dinner is finished?"

"If Mary finds out about this..."

"I daresay she would lay the blame on myself rather than on you." Holmes tapped his wrist to indicate the swift passing of time. "Well don't beat about the bush, Watson. We only have twelve days remaining, after all..."

* * *

"So do you plan on telling me the truth this time, or will I have to discover it for myself?"

It was after dinner and Irene and Holmes were in their shared room. Irene looked up sharply at her 'husband's' words, wondering instantly of their significance and wondering how to phrase her reply.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "What do you mean?"

Holmes, who was deeply engrossed in the pages of a novel, looked up and fixed his unblinking gaze upon Irene. "I mean the purpose for which I am still forced to wear this wedding ring as if I were really your husband and you were really my wife."

"Look, I told you," Irene sighed. "It's complicated. You wouldn't understand."

"Is that so?"

"You _promised_ me you'd keep the ring on..."

"And I intend to keep that promise," Holmes told her. "But perhaps if you told me precisely what our marriage is protecting you from, I could do more to help than simply posing as your husband..." He shifted uncomfortably in his armchair, and Irene almost laughed at the effort it had obviously taken him to articulate such a meaningful sentence.

"It's not 'what'," she said finally and unwillingly. "It's '_who'._"

"I thought as much."

"The last time I was in India, there was a maid who worked for the Maharaja called Nahali. Unfortunately for her, she attracted some unwanted attention from good old Captain Alcott..."

"He assaulted her?"

"_Raped_ her is more like it," Irene said bitterly. "I never liked him much, but I never thought..." She shook her head and when she spoke again, Holmes was shocked to hear she was weeping. "The man's a monster, Sherlock," she sobbed. "I was the one who found Nahali. She was so frightened. She was only nineteen...Oh God..." She staggered towards Holmes, and he caught her in his arms; rocking her awkwardly and rigidly, but still comfortingly as her sobs slowed to sniffles and she finally was able to talk without breaking down.

"After the rape, Nahali quit her job to get away from Alcott. She's begging on the streets of Mumbai right now, and it's all down to him." She sighed and wiped her eyes. "You can imagine how scared everyone was. The Maharaja was furious of course, but what could he do? That's when Jamal told me he'd seen the way Alcott looked at me when we passed each other... Jamal's been a great friend to me, and he was scared I was going to be Alcott's next victim. He told me to go home for my own safety and not come back. Of course, this was around the time the sapphire was stolen so I had to make a break for it anyway..."

Irene looked at Holmes, hoping and praying she was getting through to him. "Once I knew I had to come back to India, I decided the only way to protect myself was to get a husband; or at least pretend to get a husband." She smiled wryly. "You were the only person I thought of."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be." Irene sighed again and stretched. "Besides, I'm killing two birds with one stone- you solve the case and clear my name, and at the same time you're protecting me from that pig, Alcott."

"I understand your need to use my expertise to prove your innocence," Holmes said, "But surely there are more suitable candidates for a counterfeit husband..?"

"Who else would I choose?" Irene asked.

"You said yourself that young Jamal has been a great friend of yours..."

Irene smiled sadly as she looked into Holmes' eyes. "Jamal's great, Sherlock," she said quietly, "But he's not you..."

Holmes held her gaze for another few seconds before dragging his eyes away. He nodded and sat down in his armchair; pulling Irene with him and allowing her to rest her head on his chest. She smiled and closed her eyes. He kissed the top of her head before taking up his book once again.

"Is that Watson's journal?"

"What of it?"

"Well aren't journals supposed to be private?" Irene raised an eyebrow.

"Watson and I have an understanding," Holmes explained casually. "He rarely leaves anything lying around he doesn't expect me to read."

Irene tutted and snatched the book from Holmes' grasp, tucking it inside her bodice.

"I'll have to tell the Doctor to keep his books in a safer place from now on..."

Holmes grunted in response, letting his head rest on the hand which wasn't around Irene's shoulders. Within minutes, she was asleep and snoring softly. Holmes' could not quite bear to move and wake her, so he stayed where he was; barely moving a muscle save to breathe.

Irene had told him a great secret, he realised; the first she had ever conveyed to him in fact... Holmes had hoped learning more about their predicament with the wedding rings would reveal a fountain of gratifying wisdom, but instead he felt nothing. Irene's tale had chilled him to the bone, and now he felt the terrible weight of the responsibility he now wielded- to protect Irene from a vicious predator who would no doubt stop at very little to claim his sickening prize.

When Holmes casually displayed the darkest secrets and mortifications of his clients and adversaries, Watson often chided him for insensitivity. Only now was Holmes beginning to understand how right Watson was; how right he had always been.

Sometimes, the truth hurts.


	15. The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note: Any tricks involving belladonna are the idea of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not my sorry self! :P A word of warning- this is the chapter which made me consider upping to an 'M' rating. I'd very much like your opinions of whether you think 'T' is still appropriate... Enjoy! **

_Dear Mary_

_My days of patient waiting have paid off- Holmes has sprung from his pit and formulated a plan. I hope you will forgive me for being secretive, but the consequences could be dire should this letter fall into the wrong hands... I have just realised my previous statement gives the impression that I am some sort of a hero and that this excursion is the beginning of some grand adventure. It could not be more misleading. After five days in India with my companions, it has become crystal clear that Holmes is running the show while Irene and I serve merely as his minions. _

_I will regale you with my adventures -if one can possibly apply such a word to our current situation- when we return to England and I return to you. I know that communicating with you directly is impossible at present, but should an emergency arise, there is a telegraph in the office of the British Guard. I would urge you to reserve this dispensation for real emergencies only, for I highly doubt the already intolerable Captain Alcott would be thrilled at the thought of passing along trivial messages! _

_You have my heart- please keep it safe,_

_John_

* * *

Ever since Irene had awoken to find herself in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, there had been undeniable amounts of tension between the pair; far surpassing even their normal levels. It occurred to Irene -as she watched Holmes idly flick the strings of his violin- that their conversation a few nights previously had done their relationship (if one could use such a word) more harm than it had done good. Irene enjoyed being in control, but with her confession she had handed that power to Holmes on a silver platter. She was angry and frustrated with herself for allowing her reserve to slip when she knew it would do no good. The last two years had given her time to heal. After he had left her on the bridge she had travelled far and wide, anxious to distance herself from the very memory of Sherlock Holmes. And when fate's path had brought her back onto the same page as the man she had strived to forget, she had thrown herself headlong into the fray with the self-assurance that though she would be once more in his life, she would never find herself in his arms. The illusion had been shattered when she awoke on that fateful morning. Irene needed to prove to herself that she was still somehow the one in the position of power. She needed to triumph spectacularly over Sherlock Holmes...and she knew exactly how she was going to do it.

She laid her plans carefully, making use of her superb intellect to devise not only her own base strategy but to cross-reference it with Holmes' reactions as well. If Holmes was not to be the victim of this exchange, Irene had no doubt he would be impressed by her work!

On the evening of their fifth day in India, Irene, Holmes and Watson were invited to eat their dinner as usual with the Lords and Ladies of the Royal Palace. The meal was sublime: vegetables stewed in a delicious spiced sauce with white rice, with platters of exotic fruits to follow. Irene could feel her stomach rumbling in a most unladylike manner beneath her corset, but with a supreme effort of self-control, she took only a few small mouthfuls before she set down her cutlery with a sigh. Busily tucking into his own meal, Watson looked up in surprise.

"Are you feeling alright, Irene?"

"I've felt better..." Irene pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her forehead as if wiping away beads of sweat. "Think I was out in the sun for too long today..."

Watson slid his chair around the table and examined her closely. Holmes watched with a sense of suspicion as the doctor brushed aside Irene's brown curls in a professional manner and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.

"You have a slight fever," Watson said finally, putting hands on either side of her neck and applying gently pressure, "But your glands aren't swollen in the slightest, so I would be tempted to rule out an infection..." He lifted a hand again to her hairline and felt a sweaty sheen across her forehead. Her already pale skin had turned an alarming shade of alabaster, and her eyes were almost entirely glazed over.

"Do you feel nauseous?" Watson asked her.

"A little." She nodded.

"How long were you out in the sun for today?"

Irene considered. "Almost all day," she said. "I got quite badly burnt..." She twisted in her chair and Watson frowned in concern when he saw that the back of Irene's neck and her shoulders were scarlet.

"You're suffering from dehydration," Watson told her, sliding his chair back and picking up his fork again. "I would recommend an early night, 'Mrs Holmes', and plenty of fluids." He took a mouthful of food and made to get up from the table. "Here, I'll take you back to your room and try to make you more comfortable..."

But Irene shook her head firmly. "Don't worry," she said with a weary smile. "I'll be fine, I just need to rest."

"At least let me help you with the sunburn..."

"What do you suggest?"

"A little milk rubbed onto the burnt areas of skin should help to reduce the pain and the redness."

Irene nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Doctor. Excuse me..." She made her way away from the table and out of the double doors. Only when she was gone did Watson turn fix his most scathing glare upon Holmes who had sat in total silence for the whole of the exchange.

"Would it cause you terrible pain if you were to even _feign_ concern for your 'wife's' health?"

"Not if there was cause for genuine concern..."

"Dehydration can have serious side-effects, Holmes." Watson took another mouthful of his vegetables and rice. "It may take her several days to recover completely."

"Several seconds would be a more accurate estimate," Holmes said dryly. "Or none at all, for that matter. Believe me, Watson, Irene is not suffering with dehydration or with any ailment of the sort."

"She had a fever," Watson argued. "You saw how bright her eyes were, Holmes, she couldn't have possibly reproduced that sort of effect."

"It is _quite_ possible, I assure you..."

"And the sunburn?"

Holmes considered. "Perhaps it would be prudent to ask Irene herself how she managed that one..."

"I'll tell you exactly how she 'managed it'," Watson said, shaking his head. "She stayed out in the sun too long without a proper intake of fluids and her skin blistered, hence the dehydration and what is quite likely to be a mild case of heatstroke." He selected a slice of yellow juicy fruit from the platter and grinned across the table at Holmes. "Your face is looking a bit red too, you know... You should put some of that milk on yourself once you finish helping Irene with her shoulders."

Holmes blinked.

"And why would I do that?"

"She will need some assistance," Watson said, "She couldn't possibly apply milk to her own shoulders properly without help...unless of course she has two extra arms growing out of her spinal column!"

Holmes said nothing, and Watson's left eyebrow shot up his forehead in mock surprise. "I am guessing she _does_ only have the two arms?"

"You guess correctly."

"Well you would know better than me what Irene Adler keeps beneath her corset..." Watson hid a smile behind his napkin as he watched the colour of the detective's eyes change from brown to a steely shade of black. A lesser man would have backed off at the look in Holmes' eye, but Watson knew him better. He was not offended; merely considering his response.

"I would be interested to know what evidence you have based your deductions on, Watson...?"

This produced exactly the reaction Holmes had anticipated- Watson was instantly apprehensive and tried to backtrack.

"Well...There is no _evidence_ as such..."

"What, then, would give you the impression that Irene and myself are anything more than detective and client; or in this rather special case, husband and wife?"

Watson's eyes were lowered to the surface of the table, and so he missed the amused gleam in Holmes' eye.

"I am the one who has been witness to your exertions with that woman over the past eight or so years," Watson said. "I'm sure you can forgive me for _assuming_ that you two shared some sort of a history..."

"You would do well to base your conclusions on solid factual evidence rather than mere assumption, Watson." Holmes used a finger to mop up the last of the sauce on his plate, ignoring Watson's disgusted eye roll as he did so. "You would be shocked to discover how easily postulation can cost you a case..."

"Isn't it you who always says that human instinct is sometimes better than deduction alone?" Watson pointed out.

"Only when your instincts are good enough, my dear Watson!" Holmes stretched and yawned, leaning back in his chair as if bored rigid by the whole situation. Watson waited almost a full minute before speaking again.

"So you _don't _have a history with Miss Adler?"

"_Mrs Holmes _has been my client for a number of years."

"I notice you're not denying it."

"Then you should also notice I have not admitted it either." Holmes lit up his pipe and blew a plume of smoke -deliberately as it would seem- across the table and into Watson's face. As the latter coughed and spluttered, Holmes spoke again. "It interests me to see you are liberal enough to discuss matters such as these, Watson."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Holmes lowered his voice to ensure they were not overheard. It was a wasted precaution as not one of the Lords or Ladies were so much as glancing in their direction, but Holmes had made a promise to Irene and he was anxious not to blow their cover.

"I would have thought that the idea of Miss Adler and myself sharing a bed outside of wedlock would have seemed scandalous and immoral to a well-respected gentleman such as yourself..."

Watson shook his head slowly, the beginnings of an amused smile creeping to his lips.

"What you choose to do in your own time, old boy," Watson told him, "Is absolutely no concern of mine." There was a definite twinkle in his grey eye as he looked across the table at his friend. "Actually, I find watching Irene make you look like an idiot incredibly entertaining!"

Holmes sat back in his chair, not obviously amused but with a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. There was a pause while Watson chewed his fruit and Holmes puffed away merrily on his pipe.

"Am I to assume then that before your marriage, you and Mary...?"

Watson pointed a warning finger in Holmes' direction. "_That_ is none of your business."

Holmes shrugged. "I thought we were sharing stories?"

"It's still none of your business."

"Should I take that as a 'yes'?"

"You should take it as an indication this conversation is over," Watson said, laying down his napkin. "And also take it as an opportunity to go upstairs and help your 'wife' attend to her sunburn."

Holmes opened his mouth to try and argue, but Watson got there first.

"Go. Now, Holmes. Doctor's orders."

Holmes widened his eyes in mock amazement. "Oh. Thank heaven you said that, Watson, now I'm convinced!" But he got up from the table obediently and skulked towards the door.

"I'm sure she _is_ being honest, Holmes," Watson said fairly, calling to the retreating figure of Holmes as he reached the door and grasped the handle. "Not even Irene is that good..."

"Oh, she is that good," Holmes called back. "But I am better..."

* * *

When Irene reached the room, she drew across the shutters and manoeuvred the bed linen to give the impression the bed had been recently slept in.

For her plan, Irene had relied heavily on Watson's diagnosis. The symptoms were easy to reproduce if the proper attention was paid to detail. Belladonna -when administrated in large amounts- can be highly toxic, but a small dose dabbed onto the eyeballs gives the user a glassy-eyed expression. Irene had found the ingredient in Watson's portmanteau and had helped herself to what she would need, rubbing the substance into her eyes just before supper that evening. She had later whitened her face with an ivory powder and applied scarlet rouge to her cheekbones.

Reaching behind her, Irene pulled on the strings of her corset and let her dress slide to the floor. Beneath her pink satin gown, she wore two thermal vests; a pair of woollen long johns and her thickest winter corset. It was unpleasant and highly uncomfortable to wear so many layers in the Indian heat, but the result was a heightened body temperature and a sheet of sweat across her forehead.

Knowing that time was not on her side, she pulled off the long johns and buried them at the bottom of her clothing trunk. She winced slightly as the vest rubbed against her sunburnt back, but that could not be helped. Irene knew a great deal about psychology, and she knew that if one symptom of illness was genuine, it was only too easy to forge the others; at least until a full medical exam was carried out. It was a technique which had been known to fool even the most erudite of medical minds, and it appeared Watson was one of them. Irene had relied on Watson a great deal for the opening stages of her plan. Although he did not realise it, he had played his part perfectly.

Taking care to first remove her underwear, Irene pulled a white nightdress over her head and let her hair loose of its topknot; allowing the tendrils of chestnut hair to cascade down her back.

In the early hours of that afternoon while Holmes and Watson were otherwise engaged, Irene had gone down to the palace gardens. By the north wall, there was a spiny green plant which leaves would secrete a sweet-smelling gel. It was with an armful of these leaves that Irene had returned to her room, and she had spent the afternoon stripping the gel from inside the shoots; allowing the sun streaming in through the open window to redden her back and shoulders. She had hidden the gel inside the pantry, for it was cooler in there and nobody would ask questions should they discover it. The plant she had found was aloe vera, and its gel was known locally for its medicinal properties. In this case, Irene hoped it would sooth her burnt skin. Milk -as Watson had suggested- would have worked just as well, but Irene required a thicker and more luxuriant substance for what she had planned. Milk was too thin, but the aloe vera gel would work very nicely.

Once she had fetched the gel from the pantry, Irene turned her back on the door and slipped her nightdress down at the neck. She held it at the front with one hand so her breasts were covered, but her shoulders and back were exposed all the way down to the gradual curve which dipped down to her buttocks. This was the position she intended for Holmes to discover her in when he arrived; and Irene was almost certain that it would be Holmes, not Watson, who came. She did not have to wait long. Just as she slipped her hand into the bowl of gel in preparation, she heard Holmes' footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor. With a smile, she immersed her fingers in the gel totally, and sat motionless.

Irene could see Holmes' reflection in the mirror as he entered the room. She had to bite her lip so as not to laugh and give the game away when she saw his eyes widen in shock at the sight of her barely-clothed figure on the bed. Irene knew this expression well, for he had worn it similarly when she had casually dropped her towel to dress herself when they had met at the Grande two years ago. He was not appalled or outraged in the slightest as a more superior gentleman may have been. Holmes was a true Bohemian and any shock he may have felt was a combination of marvel at her beauty, and concern for himself should his emotions betray him. Irene smiled. She knew the effect she had on Sherlock Holmes, and loved nothing better than using it to her advantage.

"Oh Sherlock, is that you?" She turned on the bed, allowing her nightdress to slip yet further and expose a greater amount of her cleavage that could possibly be called decent. "Thank goodness you're here, I could use some help..."

Holmes took in the closed shutters and the bed sheets in disarray.

"I see you've been resting." He nodded towards the bed. "Well, it's probably for the best. I'll let Doctor Watson know you are following his recommendations." Holmes was clearly uncomfortable, and was about to exit the room again when Irene called out to him.

"Sherlock..."

Holmes paused in the doorway. He did not answer, but Irene could tell he was listening.

"Sherlock, please could you help me?" she asked plaintively. "My back is so badly burnt, and I can't reach to rub in the gel..."

Holmes cursed Watson as he stood by the door, watching Irene Adler on her knees on the bed. He had _known_ she was planning something, even if Watson had been fooled. This was clearly another one of Irene's little 'games'. What was it she intended for him to rub into her back? Holmes doubted very much it would be milk! But the worst of it was that Holmes could not refuse outright and return to his dinner without letting Irene know she had a hold over him. He could not allow that to happen. After a moment of fast deduction, Holmes had concluded that there was only one way he could get through this with his pride still intact- by beating Irene at her own game.

And so Holmes approached the bed and without a word sank his right hand into the gel, using his left to brush Irene's hair away from her shoulders and leave him room to work. Her skin was scalding hot; the sunburn at least had not been replicated. Taking care not to hurt her, Holmes coated his hands in aloe vera gel and began to work it gently into the redness of Irene's back. She sighed as the gel cooled and soothed her burns, and Holmes wondered for a moment why he had been so worried his self-control would not hold out. As erotic as this experience could be perceived, Holmes was finding it surprisingly easy to stand the sensation of his hands on the skin of Irene Adler.

Sadly, the same could not be said for Irene Adler herself.

From the moment his hands touched her shoulders and she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck, Irene knew with a bitter sense of defeat that this had been a very bad idea. The feeling of his hands -wet with the aloe vera- massaging her skin felt so incredible that she had to clench her teeth to prevent herself from moaning in pleasure. Holmes felt her body tense, and lifted his hands away.

"Is everything alright?"

Irene (who had groaned inwardly when Holmes had removed his hands and broken the connection) managed a smile which she hoped was one of illness and exhaustion. Not that it mattered. She was fairly sure Holmes would have seen through her ruse by now...

"I'm fine. Please, don't stop. It's helping."

Holmes smirked as he dipped his hands back into the gel. "As you wish, darling..." This time, he began to rub lower down; working his hands up her back and feeling each vertebra individually. Irene nearly screamed as he worked his thumbs into her spine, and the sensation sent an intense explosion of heat straight down to below her waist. Not one moment of this was going according to her plans, she thought with a stab of resentment. She had been counting on Holmes losing control, driven mad by the feel of her skin beneath his hands. It should have been Sherlock Holmes who was near to writhing in pleasure on the bed while Irene worked gel into his bare skin and peppered his skin with carefree touches... The realisation hit home with such vehemence that Irene wondered how she could have missed it before. _It should be me touching Sherlock._ She groaned inside with frustration. How could she not have seen it? _Because deep down, I wanted him to touch me...?_ She shook off all feelings of doubt. It was time to change tactics, before she lost the game. But before she could turn, she felt herself twitch. And then her body was struck down by a wave of erotic pleasure so powerful, that for a minute she wondered if she was hallucinating. In the midst of her distraction, Holmes had added his lips to the fray; kissing her back and shoulders as his hands curled around and began to feel her stomach.

It was all Irene could do to keep from crying out as Holmes silently tilted her back in his arms, allowing the nightdress to fall back and conceal her breasts as he kissed her collarbone. His tongue flicked out and licked all the way along, before he circled the most delicate spot and finally bit down hard.

Every muscle in Irene's body went into spasm as she spun around and grabbed Holmes' wrists. Her nightdress slipped back down -this time revealing a flushed nipple- but Irene barely noticed.

"Are you _quite_ alright, my dear?" The grin of triumph upon Holmes' countenance was obvious even in the dimmed lighting of the bedroom. In truth, it took more than a little effort on Holmes' part to keep it there. He had enjoyed pleasuring Irene more than he would admit, and procuring such a violent reaction from her body certainly was an incredible achievement. He had not imagined that his touching her would have affected her so. For the first time, it was as if he were looking into a mirror and seeing his own feelings reflected in her eyes. They burned now with a fire Holmes could not even being to describe; the blue irises alight with anger, frustration, and another that he found himself unable to name. Was it Lust? No. It was desire, pure and simple. And as Holmes watched Irene, he saw that the desire did not even begin to fade. He looked down at her hands clasping his wrists. By the time he had brought his gaze back up to meet hers, she had darted forwards and claimed his lips with hers; finally letting out the desperate moan she had been suppressing for so long. The sound reverberating from The Woman's chest was all the encouragement Holmes required.

He allowed her to wrap her fists in handfuls of his hair and drag him backwards onto the bed. Her hands wandered everywhere as she bit down hard upon his lip; teasing him as he responded. Pulling Holmes on top of her, Irene deepened the kiss so her tongue ran along the underside of his teeth. She cupped his buttocks with her hands, feeling her exhilaration heightening as she heard him moan softly into her mouth.

Holmes was out of control- not seeing; not caring; only feeling. Her hands found his excitement as it swelled from beneath his trousers, and he twisted suddenly so he was pressed to the bed and Irene sat astride him. He sat up and pulled his lips away from hers; allowing them instead to wander down her cheek to her neck, and from her neck to her chest, before finally taking her right nipple into his hungry mouth and running his tongue over the surface.

She groaned again and threw her head backwards before leaning back again and taking Holmes' lips once again. Using both hands, she ripped apart his shirt; ignoring the buttons as they ripped loose and scattered across the bed.

Blind with yearning, Holmes realised where they were heading and reached down to whisk away Irene's nightdress. Irene nodded, telling him she was ready. But before he could move an inch, there was a loud banging on the door of the bedroom. Both Holmes and Irene froze as they heard the voice of Doctor Watson calling out from behind the door.

"Irene? Is everything OK?"

Irene did not answer. She looked at Holmes with anxiety in her eye, lest Watson should discover them partly naked and aroused.

"Irene?"

"In a minute, he's going to come in," Holmes pointed out.

Irene found her voice. "Doctor? I'm fine. Just resting."

"Alright then." Watson had turned on his heel- Irene could hear the scraping of his shoe on the floorboards outside. "Goodnight, Irene."

"Night, Doctor." As soon as Watson was gone, Irene breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled seductively up at Holmes, clearly willing to pick up where they had left off. But the detective was still motionless; staring straight ahead with eyes which did not blink. There was a sinking in Irene's heart when she realised that those eyes -which had been a deep brown not a minute earlier- had turned to impenetrable black.

For Holmes, Watson's interruption had allowed him a moment's pause to think. What was he doing, preparing to give himself over to Irene Adler? The sudden clarity had been shocking. This was what happened when he allowed his head to be ruled by his heart- he made bad decisions. Foolish decisions. With emotions still running free through his body, Holmes felt exposed and vulnerable. It was not a pleasant experience, and it occurred to him that this was the way normal human beings must feel all the time. It was a welcome relief when his highly-tuned mind began to harden once again. Within moments, the covetousness he had felt for Irene was now nothing more than a distant memory. Sleeping with Irene would do nothing to help the case. It would make working together an impossibility. It would make him nothing more than a mortal, ruled by emotion. It would make Irene just another woman he had known...

"You should sleep off your heatstroke." Holmes slid himself out from underneath Irene and drew his buttonless shirt back around him. He averted his eyes from Irene as she sat up, quite naked from the waist-upwards, on the bed. "I'll sleep in with the Doctor tonight...Give you some privacy."

Without waiting to see the hurt and confusion on her face, Holmes opened the door and left the room, leaving Irene alone on the bed.


	16. Royal Assistance

_Dear Mary_

_When I pause for a moment to consider our current situation it seems almost ridiculous that I spend my mornings penning letters to you, knowing full well that you will neither receive them for several weeks; let alone send a reply to me here in India. But somehow, I feel it's necessary. Somehow, I feel as though writing your name every day brings me closer to you. I feel genuinely pathetic in writing to you in this fashion, but even if you fail to grasp the genuine feeling behind my words, hopefully the nature of these letters will keep you amused until my return!_

_With love to you, Tilly and Rose_

_John _

* * *

Holmes spent the night lying motionless and alert on the hard floor of the corridor outside his and Irene's bedroom. In the hours that passed until morning, Holmes mulled over the events of the previous evening and the possibly detrimental affect they had had on his and Irene's relationship. What had happened in the bedroom? Holmes was not quite sure. The answer he sought not immediately springing to the forefront of his magnificent mind was an unsettling experience for Holmes. Did he have feelings for Irene Adler? Of course he did. Did Irene Adler have feelings for him? Of course she did. Was either of them ready and willing to admit those feelings to each other? Naturally they were not. And so the cycle continued, never-ending.

After about an hour of standing, deep in thought, Holmes lowered himself to the floorboards and lay flat on his back to continue his brainstorm. He saw no need to sleep. There could be no sleep until this problem was solved.

Holmes suspected that Irene knew he was there just outside, but The Woman did not open the door and disturb him. Indeed, Holmes received no disturbance at all until the next morning when Watson opened the door of his bedroom opposite and tripped over the unmoving detective on the floor. Holmes opened one eye and stared stonily up at the doctor. Watson merely shook his head and moved off down the corridor to post a letter to Mary in the village.

By the time their first week in India was over, it had been two days since Irene and Holmes had exchanged words or even acknowledged each other's presence. Watson suspected but never quite guessed the reason for their argument. The silence between them was deafening. All the while, the day on which the warrant would arrive drew closer, until it was Watson himself who trapped Irene by the fountains in the gardens and gave her a piece of his mind.

"I assume you're aware of today's date, Miss Adler?"

"Last time I checked." Irene shrugged wearily, guessing easily where Watson was leading. She wondered how much he already knew and how much she could reveal.

"Then you'll know that time is fast running out until your deadline..." Watson cleared his throat, conscious of the pun. "...expires." He paced up and down the gardens, twisting his cane in his hands as he always did when deep in thought. "Your time is half over, Irene. We've made no real progress over this past week, and here you and Holmes are; sat at opposite ends of the same dilemma and refusing to budge!"

"I know the situation," Irene told him, sitting down on the side of the fountain with a sigh. "Things got out of hand. _Way_ out of hand... It won't be happening again." This she knew with a grim certainty.

Watson nodded. His suspicions had been correct.

"There's always a solution," he told her. "You know as well as I do that Sherlock Holmes is anything, if not a professional. He will put the case first if you are willing to do the same."

Irene had a great deal of respect for the young doctor, and she had to admit that what Watson was saying made perfect sense. But in her heart, she doubted that Holmes would be as compliant as Watson believed. Irene and Irene alone knew that two nights previously, Holmes had allowed her to see him at his most vulnerable. He had revealed to her a side he seldom let show, and then he had shut her out; as if only just realising what he was doing. Irene remembered the flaming lust in his eyes as he had laid her down on the bed that night, and she shivered in involuntary pleasure, reliving the sensation of his rough hands caressing her skin. His behaviour was no act; she knew him too well. But would his 'mistake' cost her her freedom? Would Holmes stand back and watch, emotionless, as Alcott led her to her death?

Watson saw her indecision and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. Irene found herself likening him to a kindly older brother -he was only two years her senior.

"Once Holmes has his teeth into a case, he will seldom let go until it is solved," he told her. "Just go to the room and drag him out of his brooding." Watson smiled. "Holmes is like a petulant child...all he needs is a clip round the ear and a few short words to get him going again." He took Irene's hand and pulled her gently to her feet. "Of course, you could just head on in there while he's asleep and be waiting when he wakes up. He tells me you're rather good at that!"

Irene laughed. With a courteous smile and a few words of thanks, she assured Watson she would speak to Holmes; more to oblige him than out of hope Holmes would respond positively. Nevertheless, Irene made her way back to the palace and through the guest's quarters. She felt a stab of discomfort in the pit of her stomach as she approached the door, of their room, and realised she was nervous. How stupid! She scolded herself. Sherlock Holmes was only a man after all...

She swung the door open and stepped inside. It took her a minute to notice Holmes, spread-eagled beneath the window as if he were examining the pane. He didn't look up, but spoke in a low, nonchalant voice.

"Ah, Miss Adler. I've been expecting you."

"Get up, Sherlock," Irene said, none-too-gently once she remembered she had done nothing worth tiptoeing around. She stood over him with a quite terrifying expression on her beautiful face. "As I've said before, let's not dwell on the past."

"Why on Earth not?" Holmes grunted, still not opening his eyes. "The past is comfortable and greatly familiar. Far easier than worrying about the uncertain course of the future..."

"You know damn well what I mean," Irene snapped, finally losing patience. "So, is this the end of the case? Are you just going to lie there on the floor feeling sorry for yourself and wait for Alcott's warrant to arrive from London?"

Holmes opened one eye and stared brazenly up at Irene. "No," he said, "I was merely taking refuge in the room until such a time that you would come and beg for my assistance." He turned up one corner of his mouth in a smug half-smile. "I assume that is why you're here now...?"

"I came to talk to you," Irene said bluntly, "About the fact that our stay is half-over and we're no closer to clearing my name."

"You've been talking to Doctor Watson," Holmes stated accusingly. "He often comes to harass and complain that I am not doing the job quickly enough..."

"When you've got a deadline, time is of the essence," Irene spat back. "We _have_ a deadline, Sherlock. Alcott is going to prosecute in seven days from now and I need to know we're making headway."

"And that is precisely why I never discuss my methods with clients," Holmes said with a flourish. He closed his eye once again, and Irene nearly kicked him out of frustration. She forced herself to stay calm, to find a solution without losing her head. She could not remember a time when this man had previously provoked such a violent reaction from her. Watson had advised her not to speak of what had passed between them a few nights earlier, but if it was the only way to overcome the problems which had set in...

"You didn't have to walk out, you know..." Irene cursed herself the second she heard those words escape her lips. Next time, she decreed she would opt for something that would make her seem less vulnerable and far, _far_ more evasive!

"It was a marvellous setup, I must admit." Holmes kept his eyelids closed as if explaining his most recent deductions to Irene was barely worth the effort of opening his eyes. "The sunburn; the face whitened with powder; eyes rubbed with belladonna...even a genuine fever brought on by unnecessary layers of clothing beneath your dress..." Holmes opened one eye. "Most inventive." He shut it again.

"You got it," Irene said, partly amused and partly aggrieved that Holmes had seen through her plans and preparations. "You can always tell..."

"Every time you lie," Holmes agreed.

There was a long pause while Holmes sighed gently on the floor and Irene considered her next words.

"So are you going to get up?" she finally asked.

"When the desire takes me..."

"I'm giving you five minutes," Irene said firmly.

"Not available."

"Oh you'll come," Irene said with a sudden certainty. "I know you will."

"Might I ask how..?"

"Because you have to know, Sherlock," Irene said simply. "Come on, even you have to admit you're hooked. And I know you won't walk away until the case is done and you've beaten your adversary. You never do move on from an opponent, do you Sherlock; you chase him instead. Every last one... "

Holmes shrugged indifferently; no mean feat since he was lying horizontal on the floorboards. Irene smiled wickedly. If making reference to Holmes' feelings for her was not enough, she was about to deliver a blow she knew for sure would push him over the edge.

"Oh well." She lowered her eyes sadly when Holmes made no attempt to get up. "And there I was, believing in you...thinking of you as the greatest detective in London..."

That did it- Holmes opened both of his eyes. Irene grinned again. Male pride was _such_ a useful tool to have at one's disposal...

"Madam," Holmes said, getting steadily to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height, "I cannot and _will _not work when I am commanded to; not by you, not by Watson, not even by God."

Irene said nothing; merely holding up a hand and allowing Holmes to see what sat inside her palm. It was his clay pipe, swiped deftly from the pocket of his smoking jacket the second he had got to his feet. Their eyes met over the stolen treasure, and all at once Holmes knew he could not win. Irene had, of course, been right- he would never give up the chase until there was no more chasing to be done.

Slowly, reluctantly, and never taking his eyes off Irene, Holmes held out his hand and allowed The Woman to drop the pipe into his palm. He put its tip between his lips, and felt himself flooded with a sudden enthusiasm for the case; the sort which he could only usually find by potent drug use and the falling of the sands of time. How fascinating it was that such zeal could be brought on simply by a woman (and this woman in particular) handing him his pipe...

"So where do we head now?" Irene's complacency at her victory was carefully hidden by the most innocent of facial expressions.

"Where was the Sapphire stolen from?" Holmes asked, shrugging off his smoking jacket and rolling up his white shirt sleeves.

"It was kept in a locked antechamber, just down the corridor from the banqueting hall," Irene told him. "The thief shot both the guards and kicked the door in. By the time backup security arrived, the Sapphire was gone and so was the thief."

"Most engaging," Holmes mused, glancing in a mirror and rubbing absent-mindedly at a black smudge of dirt which clung to one side of his unshaven face. He pulled a white handkerchief from his sleeve and unfurled it, noticed the embroidered pink initials on the corner and hastily stuffed it back out of sight.

"So where to?" Irene prompted, pretending she hadn't noticed the handkerchief.

Holmes closed his eyes, deep in thought.

"The scene of the crime," he said finally. "That should tell us all we need to know about the theft."

* * *

The sun was blazing like an enormous golden ball in the cloudless sky as Holmes and Irene walked through towards the palace, arm-in-arm to give the appearance of a newly-married couple.

Men dressed in the red and gold robes of the palace butlers scurried left and right across their path carrying parcels; delivering messages; talking in low-pitched Hindi. Not one of them looked up as the couple passed, and Holmes wondered briefly if they were even allowed to.

With a nod from the armed guards on the doors, Irene and Holmes passed through the main gateway and into the palace corridor. Whereas before they had taken the long corridor towards the banqueting hall, Irene now led Holmes on a right-hand turn and through a smaller, more understated door hidden in the shadows. Holmes screwed up his eyes against the sunlight as Irene threw open the door and a great courtyard became visible beyond.

Holmes' first impression was of its quite incomparable size. A marble fountain was positioned in its centre; so big that even the smallest of the marble women was a head and shoulders taller than Holmes. Every so often, a tiny droplet of water would splash from the bowl of the fountain and land on one of the black and white checkerboard squares which formed the floor tiles. His second impression was that they were not alone in the courtyard- a man stood by the fountain with his back to Holmes and Irene. Hearing the door slam shut after them, he turned around and Holmes saw that it was Prince Jamal.

"Your Majesty..." Irene began, preparing to sink into a curtsey; but Jamal waved away her respect, breaking into a wide smile at the sight of her.

"My lady, Miss Irene. What do I owes the pleasure of seeing you today?"

Irene smiled at his poor English. "We were hoping to gain access to the antechamber," she told him. "Sherlock wants to have a sniff around for clues."

Jamal nodded and turned his handsome face upon Holmes. "You are a detective. You wish to find the real thief, yes?"

"Indeed..." Holmes spoke slowly, wondering how much Irene had already revealed to Jamal about her predicament. As was his way, he studied the young man carefully to see how much he could draw from his appearance. Jamal had a scar which ran along one cheek; no doubt sustained from one of his Narcolepsy-induced falls. There was no sword or musket beneath his robes, but Holmes saw the light reflecting off a much smaller weapon -perhaps a dagger- tucked into his belt. The presence of a weapon indicated the Maharaja's concern for his heir's safety- not one of Queen Victoria's sons carried a weapon while inside the walls of his own home. Holmes looked briefly around him and saw for the first time a number of red-robed guards hiding in the shadows. They had been invisible before, but had apparently come closer once they noticed Holmes and Irene speaking to Jamal. Holmes caught the eye of one guard and saw him narrow his eyes suspiciously in response as he stared down the detective. So the Maharaja was indeed concerned for his son. Why else would armed guards be necessary...?

"Is the antechamber still off-limits?" Irene's question and the tone of her voice brought Holmes back down to Earth with a bump. It had evidently distracted Jamal as well, who had been watching Holmes' studious eyes on him with a slightly nervous expression.

"Not anymore, but Alcott's men have been snooping around and they would be suspicious if they were to sees you and your husband alone there..." Jamal frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps...I could take you both there?"

Irene glanced at Holmes for approval, and he nodded once. The young Prince seemed harmless enough at minimum, and in possession of valuable information at best. Either way, Holmes felt it was more than worth taking him up on his offer.

They walked in silence across the courtyard, Jamal leading the way and Holmes and Irene a few steps behind. Jamal's guards shadowed them, keeping to the shadows so as not to appear intrusive on the trio's conversation. They were there to ensure the Prince's safety, not to restrict his activities.

"The tower," Irene mentioned to Holmes, nudging him and pointing upwards. "That's where Princess Jhasmine sleeps..."

Holmes took in the tower with the bulb-shaped roof. It was a desolate place with no windows except for one at the very top and could be reached only by one staircase via the courtyard. Holmes drew his eyes away from the tower, wondering what had possessed Jhasmine to instruct her father to build such a place for her to sleep. Anyone would think she wanted to be alone...

"My sister's fear of British Guard grow every day," Jamal said, as if reading Holmes' thoughts. "She spend many, many hours in her tower, hiding from Alcott when he come calling."

"I think most women fear Captain Alcott in one way or another..." Irene said sourly.

"She is under constant protection," Jamal said, pushing open a door adjacent to Jhasmine's tower and leading Holmes and Irene down a long, darkened corridor. He looked back over his shoulder and grimaced slightly when he saw his own guards on their heels. "As I am..."

"I'd noticed," Holmes said.

"Do you have a sister, Mr Holmes?"

"A brother."

"He is younger than yourself?"

"Seven years my senior."

"Ah well. You will still understand what it feels like to watch over a sibling," Jamal said. "Jhasmine is...P...Pre...how you say...?"

"Precious?" Holmes guessed.

"She is to me," Jamal agreed, nodding gratefully. "I would lay down my life to protect her."

"I see." Holmes' brown eyes hardened into blackness, but only Irene recognised the warning sign. It was clear that the Prince was about to catch the nastier side of Holmes' persona. "What a shame it is that you don't take the same attitude of security when considering _all_ of the women in the Royal Palace..." With a jolt, Irene realised Holmes was referring to the tale of Nahali.

Rather than take the offence Holmes' comment was intended to cause, Jamal nodded gravely at the detective. "You are aware of the situation. What happened was a dreadful accident."

"An accident?" Holmes raised an eyebrow, and Irene felt almost sorry for Jamal.

"Security has doubled," Jamal said, avoiding Holmes' question. "We do our best now to keep Alcott out of our home and only speak to him when we need to or when he comes."

"So your father sends your _precious_ sister when that need arises," Holmes said, and the scorn was evident in his voice.

At this, Jamal's face darkened and he cast his eyes downward. "I would take her place if I could..." He looked up at Holmes once again. "How did you know my father sends Jhasmine?"

"He does this," Irene told Jamal with a smile. "Just go with it."

Jamal nodded, but Holmes sensed he was troubled by the truth of his words. Jamal must have felt ashamed and at least partially responsible for what had happened to Nahali, but it had never occurred to Holmes that to say so would be insensitive...

"The chamber is through here." Jamal pushed on another door on the left-hand side which opened up into a long, narrow room. Jamal allowed Holmes and Irene to pass in front of him, and then shut the door quickly so that his guards could not follow him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, as if glad to be finally free of his father's shadows.

Irene released Holmes' arm and the detective strode off down the centre of the room, hands behind his back.

"What is he doing?" Jamal whispered to Irene.

"Detecting," Irene replied with a smile as she watched her 'husband' walking, enticed by the chase.

They stood and watched from a distance as Holmes strode up and down. The room was lined with glass-panelled windows, set into the walls at a distance of around a metre apart. When one looked out of the windows, you could see directly into the courtyard. Holmes stopped dead before the fourth window he passed and approached it, running his hands slowly over the glass with an eye pressed so close that it was almost touching the pane. Then, he stepped swiftly back to the window before and examined it in the same way. Irene and Jamal watched as he darted quickly between the two windows, backwards and forwards over and over again; almost as if he was comparing. Irene squinted, but she could not see that there was anything different about them.

Next, Holmes stepped away from the windows and headed further into the room towards a door at the far end. Jamal and Irene followed him; Irene because she knew Holmes was onto something significant, and Jamal because he had never seen another human behave in such a way.

Holmes dropped to his knees in front of the door, running his gaze and a finger over the keyhole. Satisfied, he straightened up and tried the door handle. The door swung open and he disappeared inside.

"If anyone sees him in there..." Jamal warned Irene.

"He won't be long," Irene assured him.

"You are certain?"

"Trust me." She smiled and crossed the room to stand beside Holmes who had come to a halt just inside the doorway.

Holmes had one thumbnail in his mouth and he chewed on it absent-mindedly as he stared at the contents of the room. This was clearly where the treasures of the Royal Family were kept- piles of golden jewellery; dusty old chests; rolled-up scrolls and heavy books covered every surface. In the centre of the room was a table stacked with treasures and trinkets. Holmes approached it and picked up a polished wooden box, turning it over in his hands. It was so small and understated that Irene doubted any man other than Sherlock Holmes would have noticed it at all.

Holmes opened the box. It was empty except for a soft cushion lining. A lining the colour of sapphires... He set the box back on the table, and slipped past Irene back into the long room. This time it was the floorboards he examined; stepping backwards and forwards between two separate points, taking in what he saw and committing it to memory. Irene could see the mind behind the man, working nineteen to the dozen; if not just to save her skin, but to solve the case and satisfy himself as well.

After a long minute of careful examination, Holmes stood up and turned back to Irene.

"I think we have everything we need," he said.

"You have found what you look for?" Jamal asked, surprised.

"Oh, I should think so," Holmes answered with a knowing half-smile and bowed low before the prince. "Thank you for your assistance."

"It was my pleasure," Jamal said, but he was no longer looking at Holmes. He took Irene's hand and kissed it with a dazzling smile. "Please tell me if I can do more."

Holmes cleared his throat, and Irene took his arm. "Thank you so much," she said to Jamal, returning his smile and giving a little wave.

They were making their way out of the room when Holmes paused and turned around to look back at the prince.

"One final question, Jamal..."

"Of course." Jamal listened intently.

"I forget...When is the Monsoon season?"

Irene raised an eyebrow, wondering where Holmes was taking this.

Jamal thought for a second. "Between the months of June and August for us,"

Holmes nodded. "Just as I thought..." He turned away once again and led Irene out of the door.

"Mr Holmes?"

Holmes did not turn, but paused in the doorway to show he was listening.

"Why is it you ask?"

Holmes did turn this time, flashing Jamal an innocent smile and giving his head a nonchalant shake.

"No particular reason," he said. "Forget I asked..."

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**Author's Note: Jeeeez, I'm sorry about the wait guys, know it's been ages, but real life has been eating me! Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter and thanks so much for all the reviews! You guys m-m-m-m-mmake me haaaapyy! XD **


	17. Doctor

**Author's Note: Please forgive...this chapter is a wee bit smaller than usual, but I plan on making it up! :P Writing this has been an excellent distraction from the general crappiness of my last week, and I really hope it's up to scratch! As always, thank you to all the people out there who regularly read and review this story. Please let me know what you think...this chapter is a bit of a tangent as you will soon discover, but hopefully won't cause too much upset. I'm waffling on now! Chapter 17- Enjoy! :D **

As had now become habit, Doctor Watson spent his morning in the village, tending to the injuries and ailments of the local people as best he could. There were no projectiles or curses hurled at him as he walked the streets now, he noticed. Instead, he was met with bowed heads and whispered words of respect. Women thrust forward their babies for examination; he was hounded by men as he walked down the street, begging in Hindi for his assistance or to thank him for the life of a loved one who had recovered after he had seen to them; and small children smiled or even hugged his legs as he walked, having been told by their parents that it was safe for them to do so.

Ever since their arrival in India, Watson had given up every hour he had spare to make what he was now calling his 'Daily Rounds' in the village. It gave him a sense of worth, knowing he was fulfilling his duty as a doctor; and besides, it gave him something to do for the hours Holmes was musing alone in his bedroom.

As he headed through the palace gardens towards the Guard Post which would lead him out into the village, Watson saw Holmes and Irene arm-in-arm, heading in the opposite direction. He smiled to himself. Not an hour had passed since his conversation with Irene in the palace gardens, and already she had managed to bring Holmes out of his stupor and headfirst back into the reality of the case. That woman had powers, he was beginning to realise, over Sherlock Holmes that had taken Watson himself years to practice and had still not perfected. Maybe she was gifted, or maybe she knew something he didn't. Either way, when Irene Adler was around, it was clear that the detective did not stand a chance!

Today, Watson was visiting Devi- a young girl of only seventeen who already had a husband and family to look after. Devi's husband worked long hours in the rice fields nearly ten miles from the village, but barely made enough money to support his family. Their little daughter, Watson had discovered, was the baby girl he had found lying in the road close to death on the evening of their arrival. Thin and gaunt she had looked when he had found her, but a week of feeding up on kitchen scraps Watson had sneaked from the palace meant that Karthika (as she was named) was at last beginning to look a little healthier. There was always enough food for Devi as well, but she gave almost all of her share to her daughter. The way in which she took only a meagre amount herself made Watson think of Mary and the sacrifices they were both willing to make for their daughters. He would have gone without food for a year if it meant Tilly and Rose could have enough to survive. It was a sacrifice he had never really understood until he had become a father...

Watson was waving goodbye to Devi and Karthika when a young boy hurtled straight into his legs, obviously running at a great pace. Before he could ask whether the boy was alright, he had a hold of Watson's shirt front and was pulling him quickly down the street. It did not take Watson long to realise where they were heading- the screams of pain could be heard for miles around.

Running now fast after the boy, Watson was ushered through the door of a makeshift shelter to where a woman was laying across a wooden table- her face drenched in sweat and features contorted in agony. Two other women and a worried-looking man (clearly her husband) were crowded around her, but they parted as they saw Watson in the doorway, letting him pass through towards the woman on the table. Watson felt a lump of unease forming in his throat when he saw the heaving pregnant belly beneath the woman's smock and realised she was experiencing a difficult childbirth. Delivering babies was a tireless task, and was certainly never an area Watson had been exceptional in. Nevertheless, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and approached the table, taking one of the woman's hands in his to reassure her before reaching under her smock and feeling the position of the baby.

The woman let out another terrible scream and squeezed Watson's hand so tightly he thought his fingers would snap in two. She shuddered as if she were trying to push the baby out of her, but collapsed in exhaustion back onto the table.

"It's alright..." He stroked her hair back from her damp forehead and smiled gently. "It's alright, dear." From what Watson could tell, the baby was not moving at all. This would mean death for both the child and the mother unless something was done quickly. He shook his head in disgust when he thought about the amount of women who must die here in India because of a simple lack of medical knowledge.

Watson looked back over his shoulder to where the woman's family were hovering near the doorway.

"Get behind her." He spoke in slow, deliberate English which he hoped would breach the language barrier. "I need you to hold her still." He moved behind the table and gestured briefly until her family grasped the idea and came forth to help. The two other women held the whimpering woman down on the table, supporting her gently while Watson placed his leather portmanteau on the table and began to rummage through it. He could not help but notice the husband's eyes on him the whole time...

Watson finally found what he was searching for and pulled a pair of metal forceps out into the open. At the sight of the fearsome instrument, the woman's husband broke forth into a panicked torrent of Hindi; gesticulating wildly and using his whole body to block Watson's path to his wife.

"Please, let me pass," Watson said, his voice as calm and steady as was expected of a medical man. "I'm not going to hurt your wife, I only want to help her..." Still the man stood in his way, shaking his head, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the forceps in Watson's hand.

"Sir, your wife is in great danger," Watson tried again. "These instruments are used widely back in England. They will ensure the survival of your wife and your child, but we have to move quickly."

He made a move towards the woman, and suddenly the man was upon him; still babbling in Hindi and grappling with Watson as he desperately tried to prevent him from getting closer. Watson could have knocked the man to the ground without much trouble, but instead he tried to reason with the man; holding his wrists; speaking slowly and calmly. That was until the woman on the table let out a blood-curdling scream, and Watson realised that he could not afford to wait any longer.

"Look," he said, twisting the man's flailing arms into a fierce lock and forcing him to look into his eyes, "I know you don't speak English, but I need you to understand that if I don't deliver your wife's baby immediately, she is going to die and there will be nothing I can do to save her!"

The man still looked unsure, and Watson sighed deeply.

"I know this is difficult for you," he said, "I have a wife back in England and two daughters, and I would rather die myself than let anything happen to them." He gently turned the man by his shoulders so he was looking at his wife on the table. "I promise you, sir, no harm will come to your loved ones...not by my hands."

The man could not understand Watson's words, but he recognised the sincerity in his eyes. He gazed over at his wife and saw her watching him with desperation clearly on her face, imploring him silently to let Watson help her. Another heartbeat passed, and then the man moved slowly and reluctantly aside.

Watson wasted no more time, positioning himself at the end of the table and bending at the knees so he was at the right level. He lifted the woman's smock and felt her again, ignoring the furious noise emitted by her husband as he did so. Making up his mind, Watson glanced once up at the woman, his eyes grave.

"I won't lie to you...this will hurt, but it will all be over soon." He looked to the two women positioned behind. "Remember, hold her perfectly still," he told them, accentuating every word. "Do _not_ allow her to move." Closing his eyes briefly to compose himself, and as always aware that not one but _two_ patient's lives lay solely in his hands, Watson took a deep breath and moved in with the forceps.

The second the instrument touched her skin, the wretched woman let out a cry so terrible that Watson felt sure her husband would be upon him in an instant and pull him away. But no arms gripped him from behind, so Watson gritted his teeth and carried on with his task. He inserted the forceps as smoothly as possible, aware of the agony he was causing his patient with every second that passed.

The head of the baby had been wedged tightly into its mother's pelvis, but as Watson twisted the forceps as far as he dared, the baby was dislodged and the woman cried out in agony once more as the pains came on fast and the baby began its journey out into the world. She threw back her head and screamed again. Lights flashed before Watson's eyes, and suddenly he was back in the battlefields of Afghanistan seven years previously. The cries of the woman deepened in pitch until it was his colleagues' screams which hammered his eardrums. He saw Tommy Nesbitt -a good friend and associate- sobbing for his mother as Watson frantically stuffed gauze into gaping wounds; tied off the stumps of missing limbs blown off by explosions; wiped blood from his hands and arms. Watson closed his eyes against the roaring inside his head, but he could still see Tommy's body, lifeless eyes staring back up at him from the ground. He could still feel the overwhelming sense of failure and disappointment- could he have done more? Could Tommy's life have been saved? Watson wished he could curl up in a ball on the floor and scrub the terrible memories from his brain. But then, the roaring died away and a very different noise pierced the air...

Watson opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. He held a tiny screaming baby, quite blue in the face from the effort of being born. Watson found his bearings and used a pair of scissors to snip through the cord which connected mother to baby. One of the other women appeared at his side and passed him muslin with which to wrap the baby. He handed the tiny bundle to the woman on the table. She was smiling now, sobbing silently as tears of happiness streaked down her face.

The man who minutes earlier had been intent on incapacitating Watson to protect his wife now embraced the doctor and fell to his knees before him, now crying out thanks as opposed to threats. Watson raised him to his feet and shook his hand, sensing that he would appreciate the gesture. After all, this was a man who was probably not used to the equality of his people and the Englishmen who had taken over their homes. Even after the act of kindness he had already performed, it felt good to show a little cordiality.

The man finally left Watson's side and rushed to his wife, kissing first her and then the head of their baby; blessing his newborn son with whispered words and prayers into his tiny ear. Nobody noticed as Watson slipped away...

The sun was high in the sky as Watson made his way back from the village and towards the Maharaja's palace. The set of rooms he shared with Holmes and Irene were far from luxurious, but the two adjacent bedrooms and communal living room were satisfactory nonetheless.

When Watson arrived back, he went straight to the living room for a sit-down. To his surprise, Irene was already there- sitting alone in one of the armchairs and studying a leather-bound book.

"Hello," Watson said, taken aback. "I didn't expect to find you here, Miss Adler."

She looked up with an easy smile. "Call me Irene, please," she said pleasantly. "Especially since it's 'Mrs Holmes' now, we'd to better to avoid confusion..."

"Irene, then," Watson said with a twinkle in his eye. "I just stopped via the kitchen and asked for a pot of tea...would you care to join me?"

On the day of their arrival, the Maharaja had assured his guests that any dish or drink they desired could be brought to their rooms at a moment's notice and urged them to take advantage of their hospitality. The tea Watson had asked for arrived in due course, and he and Irene sat down in armchairs opposite each other and settled in for the afternoon.

"You would never believe the day I've had," Watson said wearily, pouring a dainty china cupful of tea and handing it to Irene before pouring another for himself. "Rounds here are even more trying than back in London!"

"I spent the morning with my husband," Irene countered with a wry smile, "And he is every bit as trying in India as he is back home!"

Watson laughed. "I could have guessed..."

"We went to the crime scene so The Great Detective could have a sniff around."

"And...?"

"I didn't get to find out," Irene said, sipping her tea. "He went all quiet and shifty, asking the strangest of questions..."

"Like what?"

"Something about the Monsoon season. Any ideas?"

"None whatsoever." Watson yawned and stretched. "Holmes often slips into monotony and silent investigation when he's working on a case- deliberately withholding information. It's incredibly frustrating, but it usually means he's onto something..."

There was a pause whilst Watson took a mouthful from his own mug, confident that this time Irene would not have been able to tamper with the beverage without his noticing.

"So how is our Royal investigation going?" Irene asked.

Watson looked up. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"Have you had a chance to get closer to Jhasmine?"

"Oh, that. No, not as of yet." Watson shook his head with a grimace. "It doesn't seem right, taking advantage of the poor girl in order to gain information on the case..."

"But it _is_ for the case," Irene reminded him. "And you're perfectly placed to pull it off, Doctor...As far as they're concerned, you're unmarried and the Maharaja is desperate to find a husband for his daughter."

"Why would he want his only daughter to marry an Englishman?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Irene's eyes gleamed at the prospect over the rim of her cup. "Maybe getting an Englishman to marry Jhasmine would ease the tensions between the locals and the British settlers."

Watson chuckled. "Perhaps if I were a member of the Royal Family as opposed to a penniless doctor..."

"Well, if the shoe fits!" Irene laughed merrily and set down her cup. She glanced back down at the leather-bound book in her lap, and Watson realised for the first time that she was reading his own diary!

"Irene, where did you find that?" Watson asked, indignation outshone by a peculiar amusement. "I've been searching for it all week."

"Sherlock was reading it..."

"So you confiscated it on my behalf and couldn't resist a peek?" Watson rolled his eyes and held out a hand for the diary. "You and Holmes are rather too alike."

"You _say_ 'penniless doctor'," Irene said, handing over the diary, "But you wouldn't know it, the amount of jewellery your wife wears..." Watson looked up to see her waving a photograph of Mary she had clearly slipped out of the leather covering of the diary where Watson kept it as a reminder of his family. The photograph had been taken days after their marriage and Mary was indeed wearing several pieces of expensive-looking jewellery including pearl earrings and the enormous diamond engagement ring which was clearly visible in the shot.

"Ah yes..." Watson took the photograph and studied it with a warm, if slightly wistful smile. "I can't really take credit though; the ring was a gift from Holmes."

Irene snapped her fingers suddenly. "I _knew_ I'd seen that diamond somewhere before!"

Watson looked up sharply as if a long-harboured suspicion had finally begun to surface. "Where _have_ you seen it before?"

Irene grinned. "A little memento, shall we say, of one of my earlier trips to India three years back..."

"You stole it?" Watson asked, appalled.

Irene tutted. "It was a gift."

"From whom?"

"The Maharaja of 's brother." Irene smiled to herself at the memory. "Of course he didn't tell the Maharaja he'd given it to me, so there was an enormous enquiry into its whereabouts..."

"So really what you're trying to tell me is that my wife's engagement ring was given to you in secret by a member of Indian royalty; enquired after in several countries across Europe and Asia; then taken from you by Sherlock Holmes and given to me under the impression that he was performing a genuine act of kindness?"

"Afraid so..." Irene smiled and dipped a teaspoon into the tealeaves that had gathered in the bottom of her cup. "Don't worry, Mary can keep it...it definitely suits her better than it ever did me."

Watson snorted. "Since the diamond in question is effectively stolen property which left India in your hands, I hardly think you're in a position to argue, do you?"

Irene smiled softly in agreement, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Watson was pleased by how strangely comfortable he felt when he was around Irene. Such a relationship between a man and a woman was not customary, Watson realised, and he wondered briefly what the future would hold for men and women who had no interest in each other aside from their simply enjoying each other's company...

Watson was beginning to drift off to sleep himself when the creaking of the door on its hinges shook him out of his slumber. Holmes stood in the doorway, his collar turned up and dark hair scraped into its usual style of dishevelled normality.

"Where have you been?" Watson asked, planting his feet flat on the floor and folding his arms across his chest. "I'd like a word with you about Mary's engagement ring..."

But Holmes was not paying attention. He did not blink, but had his eyes fixed upon Irene- eyes which were the darkest shade of charcoal Watson could recall seeing them.

"Holmes?" Watson asked after a moment. "Holmes?"

Holmes turned his gaze upon Watson, and the doctor saw now the eccentricity upon his friend's face which was present only when a case had taken a development so exciting that the rush alone would keep him awake for nights on end.

"Well, what is it?"

"Jamal is dead," Holmes said. "The game's afoot!"


	18. Jimbo

**Author's Note: I realise there isn't an excuse good enough for leaving you hanging for so long after that cliffhanger, so I'm REEEEALLY sorry about that! D: I was really happy to get this chapter finished as have had Holmes, Irene and Watson running around in my head all week! Please let me know what you think, and just a quick warning on the wordiness of this chapter :D Enjoy!**

* * *

"A young woman found his body on the bank of the river," Holmes was saying as he and Watson walked side-by-side towards the outskirts of the jungle which surrounded the village. Irene walked alone a few paces behind, apparently lost in thought. Holmes had suspected she would not take the news well- Jamal had been a close friend of hers after all. Nevertheless, she had insisted on accompanying them to the scene of the crime in order to hear first-hand Holmes' conclusions as to the death of the young prince.

"Foul play?" Watson asked.

"Naturally," Replied Holmes, taking a long drag on his pipe. Watson had noticed he was smoking far more frequently of late, and it had become a rarity to see him without the clay pipe between his lips. "It is uncommon for one so young to simply drop dead by himself, Watson..."

"But not impossible," the doctor retorted. "What's the speculation on cause of death?"

"Drowning, if one is to trust hearsay," said Holmes. "But we can say nothing for certain until a professional opinion has been issued. _Your_ professional opinion, of course, Watson..."

"And are we really expecting free, unimpeded access to the crime scene?" asked Watson, swinging his cane absent-mindedly as he walked.

"If Alcott hasn't got his men there already..." It was Irene who answered. She had crept up behind the two men while they had been talking and neither had noticed her presence.

They walked in silence through the short patch of jungle and out the other side to the river. The great body of water measured close to ten metres from bank-to-bank, but this stretch in particular widened out into a shallow bowl easily reached from the riverside. The water was by no means clean, and Watson shuddered at the thought of the locals drinking from it in much the same way as he did imagining Londoners drinking from the stagnant Thames.

Watson used his cane to brush aside the last dense clump of grasses which blocked their way, and the three emerged from the jungle completely. Here, they paused and stood still, watching what lay ahead. Not one of them knew quite what to say...

"Bugger it," Watson said finally, in perfect summarisation of their collective thoughts. "Bugger it all..."

The Indian landscape was dry and dull in colour, but the riverbank was lit up by two-dozen figures dressed in red and gold uniforms. The British Guard had beaten them to the scene!

Holmes, however, seemed unperturbed.

"Language, Watson, we are in the presence of a lady..." He set off at a smart pace, hands clasped behind his back. Irene and Watson shared a worried glance before hurrying side-by-side in the detective's footsteps.

Walking now through the clusters of Guards which littered the riverbank, Holmes knew instinctively which direction he should head. The majority of the men around him sported one stripe or sometimes none at all on the shoulder-pads of their blazers, indicating a lower military rank. Holmes was looking for the man whose several stripes he had observed from a distance. In short, he was looking to address the man in charge, and that man was not the formidable Captain Alcott...

Holmes found Sergeant Hawthorne surrounded by a group of three apparently eager young Guards. He held a pile of papers in his arms and was glancing between the documents and his deputies with the air of a harassed mother trying unsuccessfully to control a litter of overexcited children. He wore a pair of contemporary square-framed reading glasses which were noticeably too large for his face. Every so often, he would reach up with a free hand to push them back along his nose or to run a hand distractedly through his light brown hair; actions which suggested to Holmes that the man was suffering with stress.

As Holmes approached with Watson and Irene now close on his heels, he could hear Hawthorne dishing out instructions to his men, becoming clearly more frustrated with every word.

"Yes, Danvers, do it right away if you please. Of _course_ I need you to send for a doctor, Perkins, a man has been found dead! What do you mean you don't know who the doctor is? Wilkinson, find me a doctor as soon as possible and for Goodness sake, take Perkins with you. No you don't need Captain Alcott's orders, you need only _my_ orders, now go! Good God, I don't know how he died, Gregory! Maybe you could ask him yourself, though I doubt you'd get a sensible response...Perhaps you should try it!"

Holmes cleared his throat. Hawthorne looked up abruptly, his aggravated expression softening into one of surprised affability when he laid eyes on his three visitors.

"Well what a surprise this is! Miss Adler, I don't believe we've had a chance to speak properly since your return..." Hawthorne smiled apologetically and shooed away the four junior Guards. He caught a glimpse of Irene's engagement ring as the diamond glinted in the Indian sunlight. "It's Mrs Holmes now, isn't it..? My apologies." Balancing the pile of papers, Hawthorne reached out to offer Holmes a handshake. "Sergeant James Hawthorne. I should have recognised you from the night of your arrival, sir; you made quite an impression on our Captain!"

"I think Alcott made a similar impression on Sherlock," Irene said, watching Hawthorne as he shook Holmes by the hand. Hawthorne took her hand next and kissed it briefly, as one would customarily greet a lady. "It's so good to see you again, Jimbo," she said, grinning.

"And you, Mrs Holmes!" Hawthorne used her name as if it were a jest between friends. "Though here's hoping the next time we meet, it will be under more pleasant circumstances. I assume that's why you're here..?"

Irene's face fell, her eyes becoming shiny with tears. Watson watched her, aggrieved. He had not known that Jamal had meant so much to Irene...

"Where was the prince's body found, Sergeant?" Holmes took over the conversation.

Hawthorne shook his head. "I can't be giving away information like that, you understand...This is a crime scene which means it's off-limits to civilians. The Captain would be furious if he even knew you were here..."

Holmes looked up and down the riverbank at the chaos which surrounded him. "Well, it's pleasing to see you have the situation fully under control in his absence."

Hawthorne grimaced, but managed a wry smile. "The cadets they send us nowadays have the combined initiative of a large boulder. I do my best, but it's often not enough! Things were done very differently in my day..."

"How so?" Watson asked, intrigued.

"Well, cadets knew how to tie their own bootlaces for a start!" Hawthorne blushed slightly as he caught Watson's eye and looked away quickly when he saw the doctor smiling in his direction; a chain of events which seemed to cheer Irene immensely, though Watson had no idea why.

"Perhaps if you would allow us to be of assistance...?" Holmes asked casually, but Hawthorne was already frowning.

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, we have procedure to consider. I can't just let you waltz in there and disrupt the crime scene before the experts have passed judgement."

"As far as experts go," said Holmes, "I am the best you've got or are ever likely to find."

"I understand that, but if Captain Alcott found out I'd allowed you to-"

"Do you still need a doctor?"

Hawthorne and Holmes both looked towards Irene, for it was she who had interrupted them.

"Yes," Hawthorne said distractedly, "But I don't see how that impacts at all on..."

"Doctor John Watson," said he, stepping forwards with a smile and offering a hand. Watson had always been dexterous, and he had guessed Irene's train of thought a mile off. The change in Sergeant Hawthorne was incredible. His expression cleared; replaced by a deep scarlet blush which he would not have managed to achieve after two hours of exercise in the Indian sunshine.

"How wonderful," he said exuberantly, smiling shyly up at Watson as he shook the doctor's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor John Watson..."

Irene used Hawthorne's distraction to slip a sly arm around the sergeant's waist and lean her head in so she could speak softly into his ear.

"Doctor Watson is the best chance you've got at getting this crime scene evaluated and cleared as soon as possible. He's brilliant at his job; far better than anyone you could expect your men to find here..." She lowered her gaze, smile falling away suddenly. "I know this isn't easy for you," she murmured. "I can see past your act, Jimbo...I know what you're feeling. It doesn't matter what people are saying, we both know this wasn't an accident. It's not easy for me either..."

Hawthorne looked down at Irene, his eyes suddenly moist.

"Don't..." he murmured.

"Let Sherlock help," Irene implored him. "When we used to walk together, and Jamal told us he was scared for his life, we promised to protect him."

"But we didn't," Hawthorne said quietly; so quietly in fact that Watson had to strain to hear his words. "We didn't protect him, and now he's dead..."

"But not in vain if Sherlock can find his killer," Irene insisted. "What if the murderer is the same person who..." she trailed off, and Watson assumed she was referring to the theft of the Sapphire. So Hawthorne _did_ know Irene was innocent. Either that or she had him fairly convinced. Clearly both Hawthorne and Irene believed Jamal had been murdered. Though Watson would admit this seemed the most likely cause of events, he was unwilling to accept them without conclusive proof...

Hawthorne shook his head slowly.

"I must be mad..." He made up his mind.

"Oh...come along then doctor, Mr Holmes." He blinked twice and smiled ruefully. "Five minutes, mind, and no more; the last thing I need is the Captain on my case over this!"

Irene beamed up at Hawthorne, her sorrow forgotten, as the sergeant tucked his papers under one arm and began to lead his three trespassers along the path on the riverbank.

"I knew you'd cave," she said cheekily, earning herself a hearty laugh from Hawthorne.

"Only you, Irene..."

Holmes kept close to Irene, Watson thought, almost as if he sensed the next few minutes would be far from easy for her. Nevertheless, Watson wondered whether Irene was as genuinely upset about the death of Jamal as she had seemed when she had been speaking to Hawthorne. It would appear that Irene, Jamal and Hawthorne had been something of a trio when Irene had visited the province previously. Watching Irene and 'Jimbo' now as they walked side-by-side, Watson saw reflected within them the same light-hearted, rough-and-tumble friendship he shared with Irene himself. Assumedly her relationship with Jamal had been the same; so why did Watson get the feeling there was something she was keeping from them...?

A rugged pile of rocks stood in their path, blocking their immediate view of the riverbank before them. Hawthorne stepped over himself, and then allowed Holmes to help Irene. Watson stumbled slightly, disadvantaged by his limp, but Hawthorne was there and caught the doctor's forearm to steady him.

"Thank you." Watson smiled. Hawthorne, whose face had once again flushed at Watson's words, merely murmured something incoherent and clambered on to the head of the group. Watson frowned after him. The more peculiar Hawthorne's behaviour became, the funnier Irene seemed to find it. Did she know something they didn't?

From the peak, they could see out over the landscape and down once again to the great river. A tiny speck of gold lay motionless on the riverbank and upon seeing it, Irene's eyes filled with tears once again. Holmes put out a hand and Irene held it tightly. For once, he did not regret the physical contact – Irene needed support, and he felt obliged to help out. _What's wrong with me?_

In silence, the group continued down the rock-face and onto the flat of the riverbank. Jamal's body, clad in its golden robes, lay face-down at the very edge; the head and shoulders almost completely submerged in water. As the tides moved, small waves splashed up and over, soaking him to the bone. Before his death, Jamal had seemed proud, regal. Now, his body lay forgotten.

It was too much for Irene who began to sob quietly, her whole body shaking as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Sergeant Hawthorne was also emotional, wiping fiercely at his eyes to prevent moisture from forming.

Holmes, of course, was the first to react.

"Would you like to go?" he asked Irene in a low voice. He expected resistance, but Irene just nodded once. "Sergeant Hawthorne?" Holmes turned to address him. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort my wife back to the palace?"

Hawthorne seemed only too happy to oblige. He took Irene's arm and pulled her gently away from Holmes, catching Watson's eye once more before he left. They walked away silently, heads down, Irene clinging onto Hawthorne's arm and still sobbing.

Holmes felt uncharacteristically concerned for her, but logic told him that it would be prudent to inspect the prince's body before poor sergeant Hawthorne realised he'd been tricked into leaving Holmes and Watson alone with his crime scene.

"Did that Hawthorne seem a little odd to you?" Watson asked, slipping a leather-bound wallet of post-mortem tools out of his trouser pocket as he and Holmes began to walk slowly towards where Jamal's body lay.

"Odd? How so?"

"Well he was very red in the face."

"The heat affects us all differently..." Holmes stopped in front of Jamal's body and looked down thoughtfully.

"Do you think we should move him out of the river first?" Watson asked. He knew that removing the body from the water would make it easier to examine, but in doing so they risked damaging vital evidence.

Holmes shook his head slowly, the end of his thumb resting on his front teeth.

"Nobody said this would be easy, Watson. The heir to the throne of Kashmir is dead and many more lives are on the line. I think there's far too much at stake for us to choose what is easy over what is comprehensive."

Watson nodded his concurrence, acting as though he understood Holmes' peculiar philosophical ramblings. Together they waded up to their ankles into the river and stooped beside Jamal's body, taking care not to disturb its final resting position.

Watson lifted Jamal's head from the water, tilted his face to one side and frowned.

"His eyes are wide open..."

Holmes said nothing. He was examining the back of Jamal's golden robes where there were visible streaks of mud across the legs and as far up as the shoulders.

"Cause of death was definitely drowning," Watson confirmed, noting the bluish tint to Jamal's dark skin and the water which spilled from his mouth as the doctor parted his lips. "Less than five hours ago, it would appear." Something on the riverbank had caught Watson's eye, and he shifted on his knees to take a look. Though mud had been brushed over the top to form a crude form of camouflage, a handprint was clearly visible in the sludge of the riverbank. Watson lifted Jamal's hands from the bank and inspected them. Not only was there no mud on the skin, but the undersides of his fingernails were also completely clean.

Watson needed just one more clue to form his conclusion, and he soon found it. Beneath Jamal's hairline -just above the nape of his neck- Watson could see flecks of mud, hardened in the sun. Before he had met Sherlock Holmes, Watson had been a man determined beyond all logic to see the good in everyone. Sufficed to say all he had seen and done over the past seven years had thrown that particular ideology to the winds, leaving Watson with a demeanour which bordered frequently on the brink of plain cynicism. There was, therefore, little doubt left in his mind as to how young Jamal had met his sudden and premature end on the bank of the river...

"Well," Holmes said, straightening up, "You've seen the evidence, Watson...What are your conclusions?"

Watson had never invited Holmes to treat him as an apprentice, but the detective did it anyway. Secretly Watson enjoyed it when Holmes let him hold the reins of a case, if only for a short time. And so he too stood up and began to rattle off a list of his own deductions.

"He had to have been held underwater, and that didn't happen by chance." Watson positioned himself over the body, mimicking the position taken by an imaginary attacker. "The dirty marks on his back suggest there was a knee placed _here_ to hold him down..." Watson pressed a knee gently into Jamal's lower spine. That was another thing he had learned from Holmes - that a concise investigation took precedence over respect for the dead.

"The killer balanced their weight with one hand in the mud..." Watson placed his own palm inside the print left by the assailant. "...And used the other to hold his head under the water; hence the flecks of mud in the hair."

Holmes nodded his approval. "Your powers of deduction continue to improve with practice, Watson. What of the prelude to the murder?"

Watson considered. "His clothes are caked with filth and there are distinct signs of a struggle," he said finally, indicating the smears and indentations in the soft mud around them. "I suppose it's some consolation to know he didn't go down without a fight."

Holmes stayed silent, and Watson realised he was thinking of Irene.

"What are we going to tell Sergeant 'Jimbo'?" Watson asked after a beat. "He's expecting a full medical report as to how Jamal died..."

"Putting word out that the prince has been murdered would spark a full-scale panic," Holmes stated, putting a lit match to his pipe. "What we need is a credible bluff to throw the Guard's investigators off the scent for the time being; at least until we can investigate further ourselves."

"I never thought it would come to this," Watson said dryly. "Conspiring against our own country's territorial army..."

"If needs must," said Holmes dispassionately.

"Do you think Irene will hold with that idea?" Watson speculated. "In fact, need we lie to Hawthorne in the first place? I think he's made it clear with whom his loyalties lie..."

"Perhaps, but if Alcott suspects we are acting out of line, he could quicken the warrant or simply take Irene without jurisdiction," Holmes said. "Hawthorne is deeply placed inside enemy lines, which means there is huge risk involved in trusting him. One slip of the tongue could cripple our investigation."

"But..." Watson was about to argue, but Holmes held up a finger to silence him.

"Sshh."

Watson blinked.

"Don't 'sshh' me!"

"Sshh," Holmes said again. "Listen..."

The doctor did so, but could hear nothing over the gentle lap of the river on the rocks.

"What?" he hissed.

"In the bushes," Holmes said, not moving an inch. "We're being watched, Watson..."

Watson rolled his eyes and tutted. "Oh, Holmes, it's probably an animal or a bird in the trees!"

"We're being watched," Holmes repeated. "I think it might be for the best if we were to continue this conversation as we walk. Come along, Watson, there's a good boy!" Holmes tucked his hands neatly behind his back once again, stepped over Jamal's body and set off back up the path towards the craggy rock pile.

"I am not your dog," Watson, snapped as he hurried after his friend. "And what exactly is your plan, Holmes?"

"Is it not obvious?"

Watson ground his teeth together in frustration. "Maybe it is to you, but perhaps it's escaped your notice that not everybody thinks the same way you do!"

"You're remarkably touchy today," Holmes commented. "The obvious lies in the objective, Watson..."

"To distract the British Guard with a false medical verdict," Watson summarised.

"Precisely," Holmes agreed. "It's a problem I've been considering since the beginning of the examination, but only now have I realised that the answer lies directly under our noses!"

Watson still looked blank, so Holmes continued.

"Perhaps if we were to use Jamal's mysterious medical condition as a seemingly legitimate reason for his death, it would satisfy Sergeant Hawthorne's enquiry...?"

"His narcolepsy?" Watson considered. "I suppose the story would be that he fell unconscious while ankle-deep in the river and drowned purely by accident?"

"You really should see the expression on your face when the pieces slide into place," Holmes said, irritatingly self-satisfied as always. "It really is quite enchanting..."

"Well it would be an enchanting _idea_ if it were actually possible," Watson said cuttingly. "Jamal's periods of unconsciousness lasted less than fifteen seconds, Holmes; not nearly long enough for that theory to be plausible."

"Very little was known about Jamal's condition," Holmes said. "Jamal himself could not call it by name until you arrived and diagnosed him..."

Watson thought deeply. "Do you really think Hawthorne would buy it?"

"I'm sure that if you -and you only, Watson- were to explain the facts to Sergeant Hawthorne, he would be only too happy to take your word as the truth..."

Watson raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Holmes, why would he take my word above anyone else's?"

Holmes smiled knowingly.

"Trust me on this one, Watson..."

While Watson was explaining their story to Sergeant Hawthorne, Holmes set off to find Irene. She was in the palace gardens beneath the shade of a magnolia tree, eyes still red from crying.

They walked back to the rooms, closing the door behind them so that they would not be overheard. As tactfully as he could manage, Holmes began to explain the way in which Jamal had died and finally the details of the lie they had spun Hawthorne. Irene frowned at this.

"Jim's a good guy, Sherlock..."

"He is?"

"I know what you must be thinking," Irene said. "I thought the same once, but he really is a good man."

Holmes shrugged. "It takes all sorts to make a world, doesn't it darling..?" He cleared his throat. "I sent Watson to an audience with Hawthorne to deliver his medical opinion..."

Irene shook her head, smiling. "Because he's bound to take Watson's word. You're despicable, Sherlock Holmes..."

Holmes noticed Irene was shivering slightly, and poured two glasses of whiskey from Watson's crystal decanter.

"Shall we drink to Jamal's memory?" Holmes eyed the now half-empty bottle of vintage malt. "And to the doctor's absence, of course..."

Irene managed a smile as she accepted the glass Holmes offered her. The strong liquor helped to steady her nerves and put a rosy tint back in her cheeks. Really, she thought, it was unlike her to be so emotional. Irene Adler was a strong and confident woman, not a weeping wreck of a girl...

She stepped to the window and looked out over the Indian landscape beyond the pane. The sun was beginning to set, and Irene wondered how it was possible for such a terrible day to come to such a beautiful end.

It took her a moment to realise Holmes was standing by her side. Silently, she slipped her hand through his as a single tear gathered in the corner of her eye.

Even from afar, the cocking of a gun is a terrifying sound. Irene heard the distinctive clicking a split second before the detonation of the bullet propelled from the barrel. She scarcely had time to react before the bedroom window exploded into fragments of glass and she was slammed into the floorboards, tears forgotten, with Holmes' weight crushing the wind from her lungs.

The sound of the gunshot faded into the distance and all was suddenly silent...

Watson, who was at the end of the corridor when he heard the gunshot, sprinted to the door at the end of the guest corridor and flung it open. He had barely taken in the bullet hole in the windowpane before Holmes had grabbed him around the knees and tackled him mercilessly to the floor.

"Holmes, what on _Earth_?"

"Use your brain, Watson, keep close to the ground." Holmes beckoned and the two men crawled on their hands and knees to where Irene was sat beneath the window-frame. Watson smiled wryly at her, and then turned to Holmes.

"I take it this wasn't an accident? A simple misjudgement of trajectory during target practice?"

"I think you boys hit an exposed nerve inspecting that crime scene today," Irene observed.

"And I think you might be right," Watson told her. "Holmes?"

The detective had his knees up underneath his chin; his fingers entwined and his eyes closed. He did not answer Watson, but instead got suddenly to his feet and began to examine the hole in the window.

"Holmes, what if they fire again?" Watson cried, pulling sharply on his friend's trouser leg.

"Impossible. They wouldn't risk firing again, not in this light." Holmes ran his fingers over the glass, inspecting the bullet hole. "Judging by the path taken by the bullet..." He span around and began to pace back across the room. "...The shot was fired from the gardens." He reached up and -with some difficulty, for it was tightly wedged within the brickwork- pulled out the bullet which had minutes before been fired with the intention to kill.

"Large calibre bullet," Holmes said, tossing the small projectile into the air and catching it deftly with the same hand.

"Hitting the window with that level of accuracy from such a great distance is no mean feat," Watson pointed out.

"Precisely. So we are dealing with a keen marksman," Holmes said, eyes shining merrily. "In fact," he continued, "I would wager that the very man we are looking for is the same one who shot those unfortunate guards on the night of the theft..." He dropped the bullet into his trouser pocket. "All that remains now is to find the second thief!"

"The _second_ thief?" Watson asked, puzzled.

"Oh, yes, there were two thieves."

"And you were planning on telling us this...when, exactly?"

"I room from which the Sapphire was taken from is lined with leaded windows," Holmes said, skating neatly around Watson's question. "The glass in the window fourth from the door is of a slightly different thickness to the others which would suggest it was recently replaced..."

"The guards were shot through the lockup's window." Watson nodded.

"So the shooter stood out in the Royal courtyard and fired through the glass," Irene stated. She looked up at Holmes as the pieces began to slot into place. "The shots would have alerted other guards within the palace..."

"Which is exactly why the shooter required an accomplice," Holmes said. "After the shots were fired, not nearly enough time would have remained for the same man to reach the lockup room and steal the Sapphire before the authorities arrived. Hence, they worked together – one shot the guards and seconds later, the second entered the lockup and removed the Sapphire.

"Further evidence would suggest also that the guards were shot by a second man: while protecting their post, both men were facing towards the door..."

"Hang on," Watson interrupted. "How do you know they were facing the door?"

"The Monsoon season was upon the province at the time of the theft," Holmes said. "The guards entered the lockup every day with boots wet from walking in the frequent showers. The damp soles of their shoes caused the wooden floorboards to become damp also, particularly over the many hours they spent standing motionless. Over time, damp footprints set into the wood, and from that we can determine the angle at which the guards stood; in this case, towards the door."

"Sorry I asked," Watson muttered.

"They would have seen an assailant enter through the door with the intention of shooting," Holmes continued. "No, this was a surprise attack..."

"The vault was locked," Irene pressed on. "Was the lock picked?"

"Smashed," Holmes told her. "Not a single scratch upon the keyhole, but the door swung open with minimum effort." He stretched his hands out before him. "In summary, ladies and gentlemen, we are now searching for _two_ assailants. Both should be considered armed and extremely dangerous, are there any further questions?"

"The crime scene today..."

"With regards to the subject, I should just like to point out that I was right, was I not, Watson?"

"I'm sorry?"

"We _were_ being watched," Holmes said with a devilish smile.

"Quite," Watson acknowledged with the utmost satire. "And now whoever it was is bent upon killing us for our discoveries..."

Irene grinned shakily and patted him on the back. "Just another day on the job, right, Doctor?"


	19. Needles and News

**Author's Note: Anyone for Holmes/Irene silliness? Read on! :P We're ploughing through this story now, and I really can't believe the positive response I've had back from you guys! I really appreciate every comment, so a big THANK YOU and much love to anyone who has followed this story :) I love the fact that a few of you ****have sent me your own ideas (deductions, shall we say..? :P) about how 'the case' is going to pan out. If you have any inclinations or any questions, feel free to PM me and I will do my best to answer! :D As always, hope you enjoy the latest chapter! :) M x**

_Dear Mary_

_We have reached a turning point in our investigations which led to a threat upon Holmes and Irene's lives. The danger grows daily and although I do not wish to worry you, my love, I feel obligated to inform you of the perils we now face here in India. Nevertheless, I am confident I shall soon be back in your arms with the girls by our sides and our future before us. Be strong, my dearest darling, and try not to think of me too often. You will be in my mind today and in my heart always. Give my love to the girls and keep our baby safe._

_John_

_P.S Please do not hesitate to contact me via telegram should an emergency arise. We have an ally within the Guard Post now who I know would be happy to pass along any message you might send. _

For many, a month of separation from one's wife is one highly enjoyed. For Doctor Watson, it was fast becoming a nightmare. It was the ninth day of their two-week investigation, and a sea of doubt was slowly beginning to rise over the usually optimistic medic. Alongside continued pining for Mary and his daughters back in London, Watson was concerned for Irene, who had been clearly distressed by the sudden death of Jamal. What was more, he felt powerless to aid Holmes with the investigation – the detective was running the show alone, as always.

Watson was taking a languid walk alone through the palace gardens that morning when the flower-lined pathway forked off in a direction he had never taken before. Curious as to where it would lead him, he turned onto the unfamiliar terrain with barely a second thought.

The sun was scorching on the back of Watson's neck, and he had developed an alarming scarlet heat rash – not just on his exposed skin but under his clothes. When he removed his shirt at night to prepare for bed, he was certain he looked ridiculous. Holmes, who had turned a sickening shade of walnut in the sun and whom had seen Watson shirtless one evening, agreed with him.

The path ahead opened out into a small clearing in the trees. Watson realised upon emerging from the shrubbery that he was not alone – a lone figure in golden robes stood five metres away from Watson. With her sleek black hair and doe-like dark eyes, there was no mistaking Jhasmine, the Maharaja's daughter. Watson blinked when he realised that the princess held a handsome rifle in her delicate female hands.

Watson well remembered his earlier assignment to 'befriend' the young princess in order to gain information that would benefit the case. Jhasmine was away from the castle, _and_ she was totally alone. This, Watson knew, was a golden opportunity to carry out his task and contribute to the case, if he could just get Jhasmine talking...

He watched as Jhasmine, as if she were not even aware of his presence, raised the rifle to her shoulder and fired a shot. There was a screeching from a nearby tree as a flock of exotic birds were spooked by the noise and took to the skies. It appeared that Jhasmine had missed her target, for she hissed angrily under her breath and cocked the rifle once again to reload.

Watson knew he had to be careful in his approach. Irene Adler was a prime example of why a woman with a weapon should never be underestimated! He took two steps forward and cleared his throat.

"Your Highness..."

Jhasmine spun around in a flash, snapping her rifle back so it was ready to fire and pointing it fiercely in Watson's direction.

"Easy there," Watson said, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. "My sincerest apologies for startling you, Your Highness."

Jhasmine did not lower her weapon.

"You are Doctor Watson," she said finally, dark eyes clouded with suspicion. "What are you doing here?"

"It wasn't my intention to cause upset," Watson assured her. "I was simply passing by on my way back to the palace..."

Jhasmine was still wary, but she brought the weapon down and Watson could not help but feel relieved.

"You must understand I am nervous," Jhasmine told him, not making eye contact and counting the bullets she held in a leather pouch at her waist. There were eleven remaining, Watson noticed. "Since my brother's death, everything has changed. The circumstances were most suspicious..."

"I've heard Jamal's death was accidental, Your Highness," Watson said.

"Maybe, but I think differently," Jhasmine answered shortly. She looked over her shoulder at Watson as she raised her weapon again. "It would please me if you did not tell him I was here today."

"Of course," Watson nodded. "I promise." This time as Jhasmine fired, she did not miss her mark. A songbird gave a terrible shriek as it tumbled from its tree and landed, twitching slightly, on the ground some fifty yards across the clearing.

"Poor creature," Watson said, frowning as Jhasmine walked the length of the clearing to pluck her prize from the undergrowth. The bird was dead – Jhasmine's aim had been perfect.

"We have many birds here," Jhasmine told him as she returned. "Your people shoot woodland animals for sport. Why may I not do the same?"

A thought had crossed Watson's mind. "Your aim is marvellous, Your Highness..."

"I am aware." Jhasmine's dark hair was braided into a long plait, and she tossed it complacently over her shoulder. "Jamal told me many, many times..." The princess' eyes glazed over slightly at the mention of her brother and she turned away from Watson.

Before the doctor could make an effort to recover whatever ground he had gained with Jhasmine, a bell tolled from far away, sounding luncheon in the palace.

"I must go," Jhasmine said, frowning in a way which did nothing to deplete her incredible beauty. "Remember your promise, Doctor Watson..."

With a flick of her hair and a whiff of sweet perfume, she was gone and Watson was alone in the clearing with the carcass of the bird Jhasmine had shot. He placed it discreetly beneath a flowering shrub and began to make his way back towards the palace. A theory was beginning to form in Watson's mind, and he was quite childishly desperate to make it known before Holmes himself voiced the same deductions...

Holmes had fallen asleep in his armchair the previous night with his lit pipe still between his teeth, and had awoken with the pipe between his knees and a scorch mark in his best suit trousers.

A member of the palace staff arrived at eight o'clock to perform repairs on the shattered glass of the window. Holmes -whose policy it was to trust no one, no matter how blameless- stood and watched the man like a hawk until he had finished his work, before ushering him from the room and settling back down in his chair to think.

Concern for one's peers is an emotion as passionate in some ways as love, and to Holmes it felt as unfamiliar today as it always had been. Irene's time was running out, and nobody knew this better than Holmes. Equally, his fear for Irene's wellbeing was constantly disrupting his train of thought. It was a situation of the purest irony, and Holmes did not like it one bit. _Really, all this caring is hardly beneficial for the case..._ Holmes was beginning to remember why he made a habit of never becoming emotionally involved with his clients. Of course, when the said client was Irene Adler, it was an entirely different situation!

Irene herself was taking a walk in the gardens, and so Holmes was left alone with his thoughts. The breakfast bell tolled at half past nine, but he ignored it. At nearly midday, there was another knock on the bedroom door, and when Holmes got up to answer it, Sergeant Hawthorne was standing in the hallway; his peculiar square glasses not on his nose, but perched on top of his head.

"Forgive the intrusion, Mr Holmes, but I was hoping to catch Doctor Watson," Right on cue, Hawthorne's face tinted slightly pink, "Before he went out for the day..."

"I doubt you will find him here," Holmes answered, returning to his armchair and closing his eyes as he spoke. "He returned to his room after breakfast to wash and then left again by the North staircase." He opened one eye and gazed belittlingly at Hawthorne. "Judging by his bearings this morning, and every morning since our arrival, in fact, I would suggest that he is bound for the palace gardens."

"...Right," Hawthorne said after a moment's silence. "Thank you." He turned to leave, but Holmes spoke up again.

"Perhaps if I could take a message, it would reach him sooner..."

Hawthorne shook his head.

"No, I think I should speak to Doctor Watson himself before anybody else. It's a rather private matter..." Hawthorne smiled briefly in Holmes' direction and made his exit, closing the door on his way out.

Before Holmes could make up his mind what he thought of Hawthorne's cryptic behaviour (even though he had some idea of the nature of this message for Watson, and wondered how Hawthorne could have the nerve), The door opened once again and Irene entered, her cheeks flushed from the heat and body beautifully wrapped in a lilac sari he knew she had 'borrowed' from the palace tailor.

"Good morning, my husband!" Irene wore her usual carefree smile as she strode to the window frame and promptly tore down the temporary boarding the palace servant had fixed over the cracked glass. She sighed contentedly as rays of golden sunlight streamed into the room. "Nice to have some light in here..."

Holmes was amused, but he did not let on. His senses heightened into a perpetual overdrive as Irene approached and drew up her own armchair beside his. Her hair fell in its torrent of curls over one shoulder, and into the braid was tucked a bright orange flower. Holmes wondered if it was the scent of the bloom or the scent of _her_ which had his hair standing on end today!

"Your friend Sergeant Hawthorne was here just now," Holmes told her. He raised an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth simultaneously. "Or should that be 'Jimbo'?"

Irene smiled. "I know, I just saw him leave." She pulled the flower from her hair and began plucking the petals off one by one. "Where _is_ the doctor, by the way?"

"In the gardens," Holmes began. "At least, that's what I told..." He trailed off. Irene's eyes were pointed directly at him, and she was staring quite audaciously at his thighs. "Ahem..." Holmes cleared his throat, and Irene looked up.

"Did you know there's a hole in your trouser leg?"

"So it would seem..."

"It needs patching," Irene advised, getting up from her chair and going to the cupboard and rummaging around inside.

"And Mrs Hudson will be more than happy to do so upon our return." Holmes already knew where she was heading, and he was determined that it would not happen.

Irene tutted. "Those are your best trousers, Sherlock, and they need patching before the hole gets any bigger."

"It won't," Holmes told her fastidiously as Irene finally found the fruit of her labours amongst piles of clothes – an old black dress in the same material as Holmes' suit trousers. "It's a scorch mark, not a tear; the fibres are already _quite_ secure!"

"It will only take a second," Irene insisted. "This dress has an irreparable rip down the hem anyway, so it won't miss a scrap of material..." She held out a hand imperiously. "Take them off so I can work my magic!"

Holmes sat motionless, an expression on his face which told Irene clearly what he thought of her idea. He knew all too well what was going on. This was just another of Irene's 'games'!

"Don't worry, I won't look," Irene said, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Sherlock, I just want to help you."

"'Help' is not the word I would use..."

"As if I would do anything else!" Irene cocked an eyebrow and smiled wickedly. "Alright then, if you won't take them off..." She reached into her bodice and pulled out a needle which bizarrely already had thread running through its eye. _Why on Earth would she have an already threaded needle hidden in her bodice?_ Holmes realised with a jolt how stupid he was being.

"Tell me," he said, "How did you plan on me scorching my trousers and requiring your embroidery expertise?"

"Why do you think I let you fall asleep with that damn pipe in your mouth?" Irene grinned, brandishing her needle. "I had this out of Doctor Watson's suture kit last night! Now hold still while I sew you up..."

"Miss Adler..."

"You wanted to play, so let's play!" She swooped in with the needle and prepared to dig it carefully into the material of Holmes' trousers. Holmes, however, was having none of it and shifted his legs out from under her grasp. The needle slipped and Holmes yelped involuntarily as the sharp point dug deep into his thigh.

"There, that's what happens when you wriggle!" If she had not been so very attracted to the man before her in the armchair, Irene would have thought she was addressing an insolent child. "For God's sake, Sherlock, keep still." She looked down on him, a dangerous glint in her eye. "You wouldn't want me to hurt you again, would you..?"

Holmes was unsure what to make of his current situation. As much as he was used to Irene's delight in inflicting pain upon him whenever possible, the look in her eye when she had scolded him was something different entirely. Not for the first time, Holmes wondered how far she intended to carry this game before one of them gave in. Well, Holmes decreed that this time, it would not be him who gave in first!

Resigning himself to the inevitable (due largely to the sting in his thigh where the needle had entered), Holmes sat still and allowed Irene to start her work. She cut a patch from the black dress that was just the right size for the job and settled on her knees before Holmes. Before she readied the needle once again, Irene gazed up at him from the floor, an extremely suggestive look in her eye. Holmes looked away. She knew all too well the promiscuity of her position, and to look her in the eyes now would be, Holmes decided, unbelievably foolish.

With the thread now attached, Irene lowered her head close to the scorch hole and placed her idle hand gently upon Holmes' upper thigh. The detective froze instantly. Of course, his assurance he would last out longer than Irene always went to pot when The Woman actually _touched _him!

"The light in here is terrible," Irene murmured, apparently forgetting she had removed the boards to the sunlight in just minutes before. Her aim was painfully obvious as she leaned down yet further and rested her head on its side between Holmes' thighs and continued to sew.

Holmes entire body was as tense as a cadaver. He could almost hear the Devil whispering words of good luck into his ear whilst the fires of hell raged around them. He tried desperately to think of something -anything- to distract himself from what was happening between his legs, but found that no fanciful image was enough to block out the gentle feeling of Irene's breath ghosting his inner thigh...

It occurred to Holmes that Irene was taking far longer than necessary to patch a simple hole in a pair of trousers. _She doesn't seem the type to sew, anyway..._ He decided it was something that all women must know. Nevertheless, it was now getting on for luncheon (the bell would toll at one o'clock) and Irene was still working. Holmes was now beginning to wonder how he would explain this to Watson if and when the doctor returned to wash before the meal!

No sooner had the luncheon bell rung, Irene straightened up and cut off her thread using a pair of pearl-handled sewing scissors.

"That should do nicely," she said, patting Holmes' thigh and smiling when the detective flinched beneath her touch. She had got under his skin wonderfully, she realised - a fantastic result, despite the fact that Holmes had not 'cracked' during the proceedings. "Shall we go to lunch?"

Holmes did not move even his eyes in her direction, so Irene turned her back and admired her reflection in the long looking glass, before spraying a hint of perfume onto her collarbone and opening the door to leave.

"I'll see you down there, darling..."

Holmes waited until her footsteps had faded into the distance before moving towards the door, feeling more confused in that moment than ever before in his life!

Watson saw Irene and, a moment later, Holmes exit the guest house for luncheon as he was crossing the yard. They had disappeared before he could catch them, so he decided to go to his room and change his shirt before joining them. The deductions he had made through chatting with Jhasmine could wait until after luncheon, when they were all three back in the privacy of their room.

He was about to swing open the main door of their accommodation block when a voice calling out from nearby caused him to look 'round.

"Doctor Watson...I say, Doctor, could you spare a minute?"

Watson turned to see Sergeant Hawthorne approaching from across the yard. The former smiled in greeting. He had taken a liking to the young officer, despite his peculiar habit of blushing under general conversation...

"Of course. How can I help you, Sergeant?"

"Thank goodness, I've been looking for you all morning!"

"Really?" Watson chuckled amusedly. "Come now, Sergeant, what could possibly be so important that it can't wait til this evening?"

Hawthorne had a peculiar look on his face and it was a moment before he realised the young man was not quite meeting his eye.

"I think..." Hawthorne said, as if struggling to find the appropriate words. "I think you had better come down to the Guard Post straight away, Doctor..."

"Alright," Watson said warily. "Might I ask why?"

Hawthorne looked as if he really did not want to answer.

"We received a telegram from London this morning," he said finally. "An urgent telegram, addressed to you..."

"What was the name?" Watson asked, though in his heart he already knew.

"Mary Watson."


	20. Eventuality

**Author's Note: I'm feeling quite nervous about how this chapter will be received as I know what you're about to read is a long-awaited turn of events! I'm hoping it lives up to everyone's expectations, but please let me know what you think :D This is your M-Rating warning...Be prepared! :o)**

* * *

"Watson, a great man once said that 'the sole purpose of comrades is to shoulder the very heaviest of one's burdens'..."

Watson, who had been staring uncomprehendingly into space, looked at Holmes as if he had only just realised his friend was there at all.

"Really?" Watson asked vaguely. "Might I ask who you're referring to?"

"Myself," said Holmes. He was twiddling his thumbs behind his back, never having been one for compassionate words, and feeling entirely uncomfortable with the situation. "Perhaps...There is something you'd like to...share?"

"There's nothing on my mind that's more important than the case," Watson assured him with a noticeably half-hearted smile.

"Is it the medical practice?"

"No, Holmes."

Holmes snapped his fingers, as if hit by a sudden epiphany. "Family worries, then. You must be missing your _dear_ wife..."

At this, Watson's entire body seemed to stiffen.

"Thank you for your concern," he said finally, through gritted teeth. "But please, it's nothing, so let's drop it."

"Very good, I understand."

Watson snorted. "No you don't..."

Holmes, Watson and Irene were walking together by the side of the river under the midday sun. The landmark tenth day of the investigation had arrived, leaving only four days left to prove Irene's innocence before the warrant would arrive from the office of the Home Secretary in London. In light of this, Watson had suggested they spend the afternoon away from the palace in order to discuss their most recent findings where they would not be overheard. Watson himself had several points to discuss with his comrades, concerning his recent conversation with Jhasmine. He hadn't managed to find the time the day before...

"Do you think it's safe to talk?" Watson asked as the trio came around a hairpin bend in the river and sat down to rest beneath a canopy of tree branches. The slowly rotting body of a bovine creature lay on the riverbank a little way away and the smell was far from pleasant. Nevertheless, Watson knew they would be lucky to find a better spot to converse in private.

"We'll have sufficient warning should eavesdroppers approach," Holmes assured him. "Doctor, the floor is yours!"

Watson adjusted his hat and settled himself on a craggy rock, chin resting on his clasped hands.

"I've become acquainted with the Maharaja's daughter, Jhasmine..."

Upon hearing this, Irene broke into a huge grin.

"Fantastic! What did you think?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

Watson considered, aware that he was speaking about a member of the Royal Family. "Just as you would expect a princess to be," he said. "Pampered, self-absorbed... In this case - exceedingly distressed by the death of her brother, and a crack-shot with a rifle!" Watson eyed Holmes meaningfully. "She's not fooled by the hearsay concerning Jamal's death, that's for sure..."

"An informant?" Irene asked.

"Perhaps," said Watson, "Or..."

"...She knows who it was that killed him," Irene finished. "But we don't..."

"What if it was Jhasmine...?"

Irene turned to stare incredulously at Watson.

"But if the murderer and the thief are the same two people, are you saying Jhasmine killed her own brother? I thought you said she was distraught?"

"She is. I'm not saying it was done willingly," Watson said uneasily. "But we already know there are two people responsible for the theft of the Sapphire and the murder of the guards; one of whom had to have been good with a firearm." He looked 'round at his companions, his expression unusually grave. "If the second thief had some sort of a hold over Jhasmine, who knows what she might have done?"

"I hate to interrupt this lovely banter," Holmes butted in, "But theorising will fail to get us anywhere at all."

"Jhasmine didn't kill her brother," Irene said firmly, ignoring Holmes completely.

"Of course she didn't," Holmes couldn't resist interrupting again. "The manner of which he died rules her out of her brother's murder enquiry. Despite your hopeless ramblings, the deductions you made concerning Jhasmine's shooting skills may prove to be essential to our further enquiry, Watson. I confess myself to be impressed..."

"What if we focused on Alcott?" Irene asked Watson. "He could easily have a hold over Jhasmine."

"How so?" Watson asked.

"He has his ways..." Irene shot a dark look at Holmes, who realised she was referring to the case of Nahali and did not press it.

"So Jamal's death was a warning," Watson stated. "A deadly reminder to Jhasmine of her forced allegiance with Alcott?"

"Alcott's been after the Sapphire for years," Irene said. "He blackmailed Jhasmine into helping him steal it; had Jamal killed as a further threat; and then used Jhasmine to get to us once he realised we were making progress." She nodded. "It all fits."

"With a lack of conclusive evidence, it's all we've got to work on," Watson agreed. "Holmes?"

"What have I told you about twisting facts in order to suit theories, Watson?"

"Well of course you always know better," Watson snapped. "You already have this case solved, don't you? Well now would be an excellent opportunity for you to stop withholding information and tell us what you are thinking, Holmes!"

Watson hissed through his teeth when Holmes made no attempt to reply. He could usually put up with his friend's behaviour, but today there was something within him which revolted against the idea. He knew he had to excuse himself. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and that meant being a long way away from Sherlock Holmes.

Without a word, Watson turned on his heel and began to pace angrily back along the path.

"Where are you going?" Irene shouted after him.

"For a walk."

"Doc, it's not safe to go anywhere on your own." Irene hurried around the bend and after the retreating figure of Watson, leaving Holmes far behind her. She caught up with him, and sighed deeply when she looked into her friend's eyes and saw nothing but grief and sadness.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked in a low voice. "We could go off somewhere...?"

Watson shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I'd like to be by myself." With a half-hearted smile, Watson turned his back on Irene and continued his walk down the pathway and back towards the palace.

* * *

Watson did not return for afternoon tea or for supper in the evening. After the meal, Holmes and Irene sat in their bedroom in complete hush.

Holmes had his eyes closed and his arms folded tightly in his lap. He was not -as Irene no doubt believed he was- reasoning out the finer details of the case. In fact, his mind was preoccupied with a different issue entirely – Irene's 'Game'. The most recent round had been rather more difficult to handle than Holmes would let on. The very thought of being helpless against Irene Adler and a needle caused Holmes to break out in a cold sweat, but was it solely through fear..?

Holmes slowly opened his eyes, only to discover that Irene was watching him closely. As their eyes met, she winked and smiled in his direction before looking away once more.

Once Holmes' eyes were closed again, however, the carefree smile died on Irene's lips. A close friend of hers had been murdered and they were no closer to finding his killer. Another of her close friends was suffering emotionally, and Irene could do very little to help him. All in all, Irene did not feel much like smiling at present. And then there was Sherlock Holmes – the man whose very existence was enough to make her break down and cry through pure sorrow and desire. Irene had never wished for anything before in her life, and it seemed unbearably cruel that now the one thing she longed for was the one thing she knew she could never have.

Her eyes growing suddenly hot and moist, Irene shook her head furiously, determined that she would not let the tears fall in front of Holmes. But try as she might, she could not escape from her feelings anymore. She knew that Sherlock Holmes was no good for her, and that their frequent (heated) liaisons would never do anything more than tug harder on her heartstrings. But if tricking and manipulating him into touching her would satisfy just one ounce of the painful craving she experienced when he was near, then Irene was willing to go to whatever lengths were necessary to make it happen. At least, she _had_ been willing. But Irene was tired of pretence. Now, at long last, the impossible had happened – Irene Adler had lost the will to lie!

Holmes and Irene sat in silence as the sky outside grew dark, not even uttering a word when a member of the palace staff arrived to light the oil lanterns around the room. Finally, Irene got to her feet and walked over to Holmes' armchair.

"I'm going to bed," she said quietly. "Goodnight, 'darling'..." She bent at the knee to deliver a cheeky kiss to his cheek, but found herself lingering. Holmes turned his head in surprise, and found himself suddenly nose to nose with Irene. He scarcely had time to draw breath before Irene had tilted her head forwards and captured his lips with her own.

It was all part of her plan. Truthfully, Holmes knew that this -like every kiss they shared- would do nothing except to increase the severity of the battle which raged between what his heart secretly yearned for and what his head told him he could not have. That was not to say that he was in love with Irene; at least, not directly. Emotions ran deeply within Holmes -deeper indeed than in many men. But the deeper something is buried, the harder it is to find, and this was the case with Sherlock Holmes. That said, Irene stirred within him a distorted sense of unease; the burrowing of long-forsaken emotions as they attempted to break through to the surface.

Since the moment they had first met, Holmes had been inexplicably intrigued by Irene Adler; her masterful intelligence proving to me more of an attraction than her beauty which was, Holmes had to admit, quite incomparable.

In his lifetime, there had been four people for whom Holmes would admit an emotional attachment of some kind, even if he only ever admitted it to himself. The first was his mother; the second his older brother Mycroft. There was Watson of course- his comrade, his best friend, and in many ways his little brother. Number four was Irene Adler. Although he was fast losing count of the amount of times she had humiliated him in the past, Holmes was forever in awe of her and the turmoil she brought down upon him. Her very existence was a test to his (suddenly matched) intellect. Every move she made had him breaking out in a cold sweat; his heart beating faster in anticipation of a challenge. And when she touched him, if only for a second, the release she brought him was greater than drugs of the very highest potency.

He made no attempt to fight back. Her kissing him was a natural cause of events now, like the changing of the winds or the coming of spring. And her ending this kiss in her usual fashion of emotional cruelty was as certain as her beginning the next with the same torment in mind.

Though Holmes found it easy to read many people, he had always struggled with Irene. Watson often said he was 'blind' to her faults, but it was more than that. Irene had trained as an actress in America, and their many liaisons over the years meant Holmes found it hard to believe she would ever open up to him completely. But as she kissed him now, Holmes found himself wondering where the lies had gone. As she kissed him now, it was if she were kissing a lover. As she kissed him now, for the first time, it was as if she was bearing her very soul.

Just as Holmes was beginning to comprehend what this might mean, Irene ripped her lips away from his and turned her back. Embitterment and annoyance swarmed through Holmes before he could stop it. He was about to speak, but Irene got there first.

"I can't keep doing this..."

Holmes heaved himself out of his armchair and took a breath to consider his next words carefully.

"Unsurprising. You never seem to grow tired of your games."

Irene laughed. It was a single outburst, and truly the last thing Holmes had been expecting.

"Oh my God," she said, as if staggered. "Oh my God...I can't believe you still think this is about some idiotic game!"

"Would you care to explain otherwise?" _This woman is a mystery..._

"Give it a rest, Sherlock." Irene was incensed. "You're London's greatest detective...don't pretend you haven't worked it out already!"

Holmes stayed silent, but his mind was already whirring as he pieced together what he already knew with what Irene was telling him. Of course he had worked it out for himself. He had known the answer ever since their last meeting atop the unfinished bridge over the Thames. There was undeniable pain behind her eyes now, Holmes decided. This was no act, not this time. In a flash of reminiscence, Holmes remembered his shout of desperation as Lord Blackwood had pushed her over the edge of the bridge, and later her confession that her one weakness was the love she felt for him. He had been too slow to see it. It had nearly cost her life. Loving him had put Irene in danger so many times. Well, Holmes was determined he would not be that man anymore.

"I cannot allow this to become an issue."

"Cannot or will not?"

"Miss Adler." Holmes' voice took on a steely edge. "I was under the impression we had discussed this before." He tore his eyes away from her gaze and faced the window, hands clasped behind his back. She was there in an instant – Holmes shivered as a curl of her hair brushed his arm. It wasn't fair, he knew. She knew exactly which buttons to press and was clearly as intent as she had always been to press them. Nevertheless, Holmes cleared his throat obstinately.

"Call a halt to this game, or I will go to Captain Alcott and expose us all." He moved away from her once again. "Those are your choices. Which will it be?"

"What, so you're giving me an ultimatum now?"

"Make your choice and accept it," Holmes said, not meeting her eye.

"What is it I'm supposed to accept?" Irene was still furious, and it showed with every word. "That you don't care enough about me or that you don't care enough about yourself?"

Holmes did not answer, and Irene was suddenly calmer. She put a gentle hand on his bicep, following him resolutely when he tried to shy away.

"I wish you'd just be honest with me..."

Holmes almost laughed at the ridiculousness of her request. To his mind, Irene Adler was the very last person who should be lecturing him on the merits of honesty!

"Do not accuse me of not caring for you," he said uncomfortably, deciding a swift change of subject was his best option at present.

"Do you?"

Again, there was silence. Holmes turned from her once again and Irene sighed. "What if we're over-complicating this...?" She gave Holmes' arm a squeeze. "You already know what I want... But what do _you_ want, Sherlock?"

_You._ The word jumped to the forefront of Holmes' mind before he could stop it. He shook his head. It was not that simple. It would never be that simple. But his eyes were betraying his every thought, and he knew it. Irene was too clever for his lies. She knew him far too well... Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Irene pressed her finger to his lips, shushing him.

"You don't have to say anything," she whispered. "I know what you're thinking..."

Their heads came together slowly, foreheads touching but nothing more. There was a terrible roaring in Holmes' ears and he wondered what it was before realising it was his heartbeat. It was hammering so hard and so fast, Holmes had not recognised it as his own. And with every beat, Holmes felt himself giving up the fight. He was surrendering; he was letting her win because finally he saw the bigger picture. Maybe, just maybe, this _was_ the man he wanted to be... So why the unbearable hammering inside his head?

"It's called being nervous," Irene murmured as if reading his mind. And in a way, she really was...

Irene took Holmes' hand and raised it to her own neck, pressing his fingers against her pulse point. He smiled ever-so-slightly as he felt her own anxiety and realised it was of a similar degree as his own.

At long last switching off his brain and allowing human instinct to be his guide, Holmes let his hand wander from Irene's neck up to her hair. He selected a chocolate curl and wound it around his finger. It was the right move to make – Irene sighed softly and tilted her head. Now, their noses rubbed gently together. Her breath ghosted Holmes' face, and he closed his eyes as Irene parted her lips and leant into him.

The hammering in Holmes' ears faded as their lips moved gently over one another. Now he could hear Irene's heart instead. It was an incredible feeling. Anxious to sustain it, Holmes lowered his hands to rest on Irene's bare forearms and felt the blood pumping through her veins in a way which made him feel unspeakably human. There was no need to rush this, he knew. He needed the release that came with Irene's touch more than anything he had ever experienced before. In a world of addiction, self-loathing and terror, she was all he had still to cling to; the only thing that was constant. His body was crying out for the contact that would provide the release, but as his lips were parted by hers and he felt the warmth of her breath, he found he could no longer focus on himself and his own needs. All he could think of was her.

Irene's heart skipped a beat as she felt Holmes push his tongue inside her mouth and push her lips further apart. Her arms were around his waist with his hands resting on her elbows, but she broke free of the embrace and allowed her hands to wander up into the gorgeous curls of his hair. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her in so they were much closer in body. Then, he deepened the kiss.

With her body pressed so tightly against his own, Holmes was experiencing a burning desire he had not felt in years. Come to think of it, Holmes was not sure he had _ever_ felt a yearning quite like this. The tension which had existed between them for so long smouldered in the very pit of his stomach and filled him from head to toe with warmth. His lips were ablaze now as well as their two tongues for once did not fight for control, but accommodated and caressed the other in a way that was more loving than lustful.

It was Irene who moved first, pulling him down gently onto the bed so they were both sat on the very edge- still facing each other and still kissing. Her focus drifted as the strands of hair she had wrapped around her fingers tickled her skin. The dark curls on top of Holmes' head were nothing like the coarse tresses she had once imagined; but instead were softer and silkier than the finest Indian fabric. It struck her as ironic that a man whose essence was so hardened could possibly possess hair that was so soft...

Neither spoke a word as Holmes reached behind her back and slipped the ties of the dress she wore from around her neck and applying his lips to her collarbone. She closed her eyes; sighing deeply as she always did at the sensation of unshaven stubble ghosting her skin as he worked her dress down to her waist and kissed every inch of flesh his hands had touched.

Irene's hands were shaking as she fiddled with the button clasps on Holmes' shirt. He unlaced her corset. She slid his trousers down over his hips. The pile of clothing on the floor of the bedroom slowly grew until there was nothing separating them but physical space. Holmes shifted, lowering his gaze and taking in her body. A mere look had never felt more sensual to Irene, and she shivered again through pure exhilaration. She had seen him naked before when she had handcuffed him in a cruel trick, but this was the first time she had bared herself to him in such an exposed fashion. Irene had never been shy about nudity. She had slept with many men in her twenty nine years, but not one of them had looked at her the way Holmes was at that second. There was neither lust nor perversion in his stare; only a deep affection. A soft light of warmth shone in Holmes' perfect brown eyes, and all at once, Irene Adler felt herself grow cold with timidity.

As if sensing her nerves, Holmes brought his gaze up to her face. He didn't need to speak - he just offered a hand. Though her own hand was shaking now, she reached for him and pressed their palms together, fanning out the fingers. Their bodies faced each other on the bed as he wrapped her in his arms and held her close.

Every one of Irene's senses was heightened at that moment. Above the normally overpowering scent of tobacco smoke, she could smell cologne (admittedly filched from Doctor Watson) and the sweet smell of Holmes' own skin. She shivered again, flattered by his chivalry as he rubbed soothing circles into her back and shoulders.

Filled with a sudden urge for what was to follow, Irene swallowed her nerves and cupped Holmes' cheeks with her hands. She kissed him again, and at once, her anxiety evaporated. His hands shifted to her lower back; the touches so sensational that she felt suddenly weak and limp. His strong hands guided her in wrapping her legs around his waist, and then he held her steady as she gasped and collapsed against him.

Irene arched her back and threw back her head. Holmes' hands were there once again, and they fitted perfectly into the small of her back as he straightened her spine and simultaneously pulled her hips towards him.

He watched her every move, mesmerised by her beauty even when in such a vulnerable position as this. Her eyes were tight shut, but her ruby-red lips were parted slightly as they began to move together as one.

As his own breathing became shallow and sweat began to stand out on his skin, Holmes clasped his hands behind Irene's back; digging his short nails into her shoulders. For a split-second, he worried that he was hurting her. But then she rocked against him again, and Holmes had to close his own eyes in order to keep some of his control.

Her eyes were still clenched shut, but as she pressed herself into him one final time, The Woman's eyes opened and in them, Holmes' saw a thousand emotions. It was a perfect and deeply profound moment as they stared into each other's eyes, unmoving, not even breathing. Not even Holmes could describe what he felt at that second. The Great Detective simply could not have found the words. For a second, there was nothing. And then Holmes fell shivering against her; not just from the physicality of what they had done, but from the intensity of the mental release she had given him. Suddenly, miraculously, he was at peace. The beauty of the woman before him was no longer shrouded in denial and judgement. For the first time, he saw her for what she was - the woman who had outsmarted him; the woman who was better than he; the only woman there had ever been, and the only woman there ever would be. Holmes was almost saddened by the realisation that within mere hours, the clarity would be gone and he would scarcely remember he had thought of Irene Adler in this way.

As it was, Irene slid herself off Holmes' lap and allowed him to kiss her forehead. She pulled back the satin bedclothes and snuggled down beneath them, curling into Holmes' arms and closing her eyes. Neither spoke a word – there was no need to. The truth rang louder than a cavalry charge.

And as the hands of his pocket watch turned slowly through the hours, Holmes lay awake, watching Irene sleep and wondering if anything would ever be the same again...


	21. Pink Elephants

**Author's Note: OHMIGOD, I feel SO bad! Leaving you guys hanging for so long is completely inexcuseable, and I am really SO sorry for the wait! D: I really hope this lives up to your expectations...I wasn't 100% happy with it myself, but it wasn't an easy chapter to write, and I was hoping for some (undeserved, given the hiatus) feedback which could help me see where I could improve if necessary..? Pleeeease let me know what you think! :D Enjoy! **

Irene awoke the next morning feeling inexplicably as though something momentous had occurred. She roused herself slowly, the burning Indian sun streaming in through the windows bringing with it a feeling of idleness one never experienced in cold weather.

Suddenly aware that she was naked beneath the silken bedclothes, Irene glanced hastily around the room and upon finding it empty, slid out of the bed. Holmes must have already left for breakfast or perhaps a morning stroll with Doctor Watson. In any case, his absence was not unusual. She suspected he would be back soon enough.

A basket of fresh fruit lay on the dresser. Irene spent a long time pondering over her choice before finally selecting a juicy-looking pear and taking a delicate bite. She walked slowly to the armoire and pulled out her white satin robe; it would preserve her modesty should an unannounced visitor arrive.

Something caught her eye as she passed the looking-glass – a puckered red mark on her collarbone. Closer examination would have been futile; she was already well aware of what it was. But how had it got there and who was responsible? The events of the previous night came rushing back all at once and completely without warning – the conversation she had shared with Holmes; the incredible experience they had shared; falling asleep in his arms after he had made love to her and she had submitted. Her memory was a little fuzzy about the edges; it seemed as though the preceding evening had occurred in another time, another place. Indeed, the scarlet lovebite on her collarbone was the only evidentiary factor to prove that it had not all been some sort of a fantastical dream or hallucination.

Irene could see the shirt and trousers Holmes had been wearing folded neatly over the back of his armchair. Suddenly and without initial explanation, the skin of her inside thighs began to tingle as she recalled the feeling of Holmes' lips ghosting her most intimate areas, and the incomparable pleasure she had attained from having him within her...

It had not been a dream, by now she was convinced. As her memory gradually became clearer, she reached absent-mindedly for the patch on her shoulder where Holmes' fingernails had dug into her skin as he had almost silently gasped his own release – a sound which had proved more arousing than Irene could ever have imagined.

So where was he now? Irene's stomach gave a leap of anxiety as she imagined facing him after what had passed between them. It was a moment before she realised that it did not matter in the slightest. She would be lying to herself if she'd said she hadn't wished for Sherlock Holmes to love her nearly every day since their last meeting. Since the moment they'd met, her heart had beat a little faster when he was near; her days seeming a little brighter when he was in them. Irene was well aware that one night together did not necessarily indicate that Holmes loved her in the way she knew she loved him. But still, Irene thought, it was a good place to start!

Irene set down her half-eaten pear, no longer wanting to eat. All she could do was smile.

* * *

"Holmes, would you pass me the teapot?" Watson sat with his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hands. He'd barely slept all night.

Holmes complied, watching closely as his friend took the pot and poured himself a large mug full of tea.

"Watson, are you aware that your hands are shaking?"

The Doctor looked down at his fingers. "No they're not," he said.

"Yes they are. Observe..." Holmes snatched one of Watson's hands and examined it closely. "There is a distinct tremor in your dominant right hand."

"And the lemon please," Watson said shortly, snatching his hand back and receiving the plate from Holmes. He fumbled with the small silver tongs, cursing under his breath as the lemon slice slipped from his grasp and landed on the breakfast table with a dull 'flop'. He glanced up to find Holmes watching him, the expression on his face one of smug eloquence.

What? Is there something on my face?" Watson snapped.

"At first I thought perhaps you had been drinking," Holmes said, ignoring Watson's hiss of irritation. "But then I remembered you never drink before midday, not even at Christmastime. Thus, there must be a second definitive reason for your quavering posture; the finer details of which I have yet to deduce." He placed his hands together and brought them to rest on his lips. "Perhaps you would care to share with me what it is that troubles you..?"

"I told you," Watson said touchily, "I'm fine. Come on, let's go back upstairs."

"You'll be back with your wife and children soon," Holmes said belittlingly, his manner as brusque as it always was when dealing with matters as 'trivial' as family relationships. "I'm sure if you asked nicely, Sergeant Hawthorne would be only too happy to pass on a telegram to Mary and-"

"_Holmes!"_ Watson whipped 'round on his heel and stuck a warning finger in Holmes' face. "I'm asking you -no, I'm _telling_ you- drop the subject. I don't want to talk about it." With a baleful glare in Holmes' direction, he turned away and stalked out of the dining hall, oblivious to the stares of the Indian aristocracy members who had witnessed the scene. Holmes blinked once and raised an eyebrow before following him.

"Watson, where _are_ you going?"

"To the gardens," Watson said without looking back. "And I'm going alone."

* * *

In the deep, dark and cavernous depths of the otherwise useless organ he called his heart, Holmes did feel some measure of remorse for upsetting Watson. However, he saw no need to apologise. Watson was clearly a little sensitive at present, and it would do no good to aggravate him further.

Upon arrival at the guest quarters he shared with his companions, Holmes paused and looked up at the window of his and Irene's bedroom. Though the sun was high in the sky, the thin hangings had not yet been opened, and Holmes could see the outline of the room which sat behind. He saw a faint silhouette in the centre of the window, and realised that Irene was still in the room above, dressing. With extreme unwillingness, he found himself recalling the night they had spent together...

Irene was the first woman in a long time to succeed in breaking down his defences, and certainly the _only_ woman he had ever considered for a moment spending his life with. Her beauty and grace were undeniable, and sometimes Holmes wondered if he might love her. But knowing somewhere deep inside that he wanted to be with Irene and actually..._being_...with her were two very different things. He couldn't make a commitment to Irene -or to any woman for that matter- because he knew, regretfully, he would never be able to return her love. This coupled with the fact that there was not a single ounce of trust between the two of them; Holmes knew that making love to Irene had been a grave and potentially detrimental error of judgement. But one couldn't spend hours dwelling on the past, and the pressure brought on by the case meant that Holmes could not afford to lose focus. Not when he was so very close to solving it...

And so it was that Holmes chose to knock on the door of the bedroom before he entered it so as to be sure he did not catch Irene off-guard. When he entered, the lady herself was drawing the gossamer curtains aside, dressed elegantly in a dress of floating scarlet material with her hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.

As he hovered uncomfortably in the doorway, Holmes realised he was hoping desperately that he and Irene would be in the same boat; that she too would not want to address the situation which had arose between them. Unfortunately for Holmes, this illusion was shattered as Irene turned to face him, and he saw the pink blush ghost her cheekbones.

"Hello," she said softly. As a shy smile crept to her lips, Holmes could feel his temperament sinking lower and lower. Irene was not the kind of woman to act diffidently around a man she had slept with, he was certain; not unless she thought (or hoped) it was bound for something more. A relationship, perhaps, or maybe even a marriage. _Marriage_. The very thought of the word was enough to bring a cold sweat to the surface of Holmes' skin!

"Good morning, Miss Adler." Holmes finally found his voice, though it was pitched a slight higher than usual. "Forgive me for not staying long, but I have some important business to attend to..."

Irene sighed, and Holmes knew instinctively what was coming. "Sherlock, listen, about last night..."

"Last night?" Holmes looked up, blinking several times in the space of a few seconds. "We had fish for supper, didn't we? With seasoned vegetables and a dash of spiced sauce... Most satisfying."

"That's not what I meant," Irene said. "I just think we need to talk..."

"About last night?"

"Yes, Sherlock." Irene resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Well." Holmes shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "Well, I can't imagine what it is you would want to talk about, Miss Adler..."

"Will you stop 'Miss Adler'-ing me!" Irene exploded. Her eyes were flashing with ferocity, but inside she could feel her composure beginning to crack along with her heart. She'd never expected this to be easy, but it would be a lie to say she hadn't been hoping for a change in their relationship after the night they had spent. "Come on, Sherlock, couldn't we just _try_ and have a sensible, mature conversation here?"

Holmes closed his eyes briefly. "Miss Adl...Irene...you have to understand..."

"No, _you_ have to understand," Irene interrupted, her intense disappointment giving way to anger. "Sherlock, we both knew the consequences of last night, why can't you just accept that what's done is done?"

"Well you were the one who mentioned it." Holmes was fully aware he sounded like a petulant little boy, but there were more pressing issues on his mind than attitude problems, and so made no immediate resolution to correct himself.

"God, I...I..." Irene let her hands fall to her sides with a slap, totally lost for words. "What is the problem here? Why won't you just _talk_to me?" Holmes said nothing, but he didn't need to. Irene had already worked it out for herself. "What so you're ashamed? Was making love to me so terrible for you that you think it was a huge mistake?"

"You, you were...perfect," Holmes said with some effort. "But..."

"But it was still a mistake?" Irene shook her head. "I don't understand you. Why I ever thought I could have any sort of a...a relationship with you is way beyond me since it's clear there's no trust between us whatsoever!" She could feel the tears forming, but was determined not to let them fall. "You're never honest with anyone, are you? And it's not just me – you're not honest with Watson or with your clients. You're not even honest with yourself..."

"Now is not the time to discuss this," Holmes said firmly, turning and clearly preparing to leave the room once again. "Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Adler, I have a case to solve."

"You can't run away from the past," Irene yelled after him. "No-one can, not even you, Sherlock!" She slammed the door behind him and retreated to her chair, more angry than upset, but nevertheless devastated by Holmes' callous behaviour. She thought briefly of what her dysfunction might be – what it was which caused her to fall for his wiles time and time again. Was she a gormless fool, or simply head over heels in love? As the sun outside rose further and further into the cloudless azure sky, Irene wondered if there was really any difference at all between those two possibilities...

* * *

Since she had no idea when Holmes would be returning (and since she didn't particularly care anyway at present), Irene was in the process of ordering a private luncheon for herself to be brought to the room when there was a brisk knock on the door and Watson entered the threshold.

"Afternoon, doctor," Irene said with her easy smile. "Can I get you something for lunch? The attendant will be up in a minute or so..."

"No thank you." Watson managed to return her smile before collapsing backwards into Holmes' unoccupied armchair.

Watson had been lean and slender for as long as Irene had known him, but today he looked positively gaunt. Though his face was still coloured from sunburn, his skin was pale and drawn. What's more, Watson's eyes seemed to have sunk inward into his skull as if he hadn't had a decent meal nor slept a wink in days.

Despite the doctor's decline of food, Irene ordered a portion of bread and fruit big enough for the two of them to share with a large pitcher of a delicious cordial she'd become particularly fond of since their arrival.

When the food arrived and Irene had served a sizeable amount onto Watson's plate, she handed him a glass and watched approvingly as he drained its contents. When some of the colour had returned to the doctor's sallow cheeks, Irene pulled her own armchair around so it was adjacent to his and put a kindly hand on his arm.

"If you need to talk, you know where I am..."

Watson smiled slightly. "Perhaps later," he said. "We could go for a walk after lunch..."

When Irene had eaten her fill (Watson had barely touched the fruit she offered him), they donned their hats and set off together into the palace gardens. Watson had come to love the gardens since their arrival in India. It was so peaceful -to find oneself beneath the shaded canopy of such enormous trees; hear exotic birds singing from high in the branches; be tantalised by the sweet aromas of plants and flowers which lined the pathway.

They came to rest by the fountain near which they had met with Holmes ten days previously to discuss the particulars of the case. Irene sat down on the marble edge of the water bowl, but Watson remained standing. His voice far away as if he were talking only to himself, the doctor began his tale. When he had finished, Irene made to speak, but Watson stopped her.

"It's alright," he said, "You don't have to say anything. I know you'll be thinking of me, but I don't need your sympathy, I need to work."

"Doctor..."

"The sooner this case is over, the sooner I can be home," Watson said stubbornly. "Now you know the truth, but if I'm honest, I would rather not talk about it..."

"Then I won't mention it," said Irene. She looked up at the late afternoon sky where the sun was already beginning its decent. "Shall we go back?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so." Watson readjusted his hat and led the way back down the narrow pathway towards the palace. As they walked, Irene wished she could tell Watson of her own predicament, but found that she didn't quite have the words. Perhaps it was for the best; she reasoned that he might even be shocked or offended by tales of her lewd behaviour. She was still pondering whether or not to come clean when they arrived back at their rooms.

"Join me in a cup of tea?" Watson asked as they entered the hallway. "Perhaps something stronger? It's been a long day... Holmes can adhere when he gets back."

Watson threw open the door of his room and froze to the spot. Irene, just behind him, looked through the doorway and gasped in shock. The room had been ransacked – drawers opened and their contents strewn all over the floor; bed sheets in disarray; pillows torn open at the seams, feathers littering every surface. Paintings and decorations had been torn from the walls and thrown to the floor. Even Watson's leather portmanteau had been emptied and his emergency medical supplies tipped out onto the bed. From his position near the door, Watson finally found his voice.

"Wha...What in _God's_ name?"

"Oh, hello," said a voice behind Irene, "You're back." It was Holmes, appearing coolly unconcerned by the fact that the doctor's room had been turned upside down in his absence.

"Holmes," Watson spluttered. "What happened here? Did you see anyone?"

"Well I think it's fairly obvious what has happened, Watson, your room has been scoured."

"And yours too?"

"And ours too."

"What?" It was Irene who spoke, all colour draining from her cheeks.

"Turned over in much the same way as this," Holmes replied, indicating the chaos around them. Without another word, Irene turned and set off to hers and Holmes' room to inspect the damage within.

"I thought we'd seen it all when those shots were fired at the window, but this _really _takes the biscuit!" Watson was pacing angrily around the room, collecting up his medical items and cramming them back into their bag. He scooped an unravelled bandage off the bed and began to roll it up again. "Look at this – the mattress has been slashed open!"

"Of course it has," Holmes said. "I'd wager whoever is responsible wanted to ensure they performed a thorough and highly methodical search of the premises, hence the slashing of the mattress. I would have done the same myself..."

"Did you just say 'search'?" Watson asked. "What on Earth were they looking for?"

"I'm not sure," Holmes said thoughtfully. "Though as to the identity of the assailant, I believe I have some idea..."

But just who Holmes was thinking of, Watson did not find out, for Irene re-entered the room and cut the detective off mid-stream.

"Nothing's been taken," she said. "Money; our train tickets; personal possessions...Everything's exactly where I left it."

"But how did they get in?" Watson said, as though thinking aloud. "I'm sure we locked the door before we left..."

"That you did, Watson," Holmes said, his eyes noticeably gleaming with the sense of excitement a sharp twist in a case brought him. "The door was indeed locked, which makes the method in which our guests entered our quarters all the more elusive."

A pregnant pause followed, during which both Watson and Irene remembered their respective arguments with Holmes and mulled over whether or not to forget them for the time being. It was Watson who finally condescended to break the silence, realising that nobody else was prepared to do so.

"Well why we ponder over that tricky little detail, why don't we try and get this place straightened out?"

While Irene bustled about in hers and Holmes' room, Watson set about fixing his own. Holmes strolled nonchalantly between the two rooms, making no effort at all to help the cleanup. In fact, Watson would have sworn blind he was going out of his way to create yet more mess for them to sort out.

"Would it be too much to ask you to help out?" Watson asked waspishly, dropping his portmanteau on the newly-made bed and placing his hands on his hips.

Holmes was bent at the knee, examining a stall which had been dragged over to the East wall as if to help the assailant reach the paintings which were pinned too high up to reach. At Watson's words, he looked up, but didn't speak.

"Oh, of course, you're working on the case." Watson ran a hand over his sweating forehead, his words dripping with disdain.

"Indeed."

"What were you doing this morning anyway?" Watson asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"I was invited to an audience with the Maharaja." Holmes straightened up with a slight wince. "He respectfully requested I share with him any information I might have concerning his son's murder investigation."

"What did you tell him?"

"Your question should be – 'What did he tell _me_'," Holmes said thoughtfully. "A great deal was said; though of course only marginal amounts will prove to be useful to the investigation..." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his tobacco box, grimacing at its distinct lack of contents. When he spoke again, it was with an air of disinterest.

"The Maharaja's Queen -that is, Jamal and Jhasmine's mother- passed away not a year before our arrival. His Majesty said he has yet to recover completely from the loss."

Watson's face had drained unceremoniously of colour (apparently unnoticed by Holmes), but he managed to nod.

"Well naturally," he said. "And the death of Jamal so soon afterward only exacerbated his feelings, I should imagine..."

"You imagine correctly, although I find it highly nonsensical he should still be upset," Holmes said, putting away his tobacco and holding a match to his freshly-stuffed pipe. "A whole _year_ has passed, after all."

Watson shook his head in frank disbelief. "His wife died," he said, surprising even himself with the level of hostility in his voice. "She _died_, Holmes. Now I shouldn't imagine you can possibly comprehend that, but could you at least _try_..." He took a deep breath, aware of the fact that his voice was trembling with unforeseen emotion. "...Try and be a little more sensitive, _please_! For my sake if for no-one else's..."

Holmes studied Watson carefully, taking in the still-present tremor in his hand which seemed to have spread so that now his whole body was trembling; the glassy sheen to his eyes, and the slight heaving of his chest. Not even Holmes could overlook the fact that his friend was in great emotional distress, but what could have happened?

"Watson, I..."

"How did the Queen die?"

"I merely wanted to ask..."

"Tell me, Holmes, how did she die?" Watson gritted his teeth, determined to continue their conversation.

"The Queen was taking the morning air in the village when she was knocked down by a cart of local hooligans," Holmes said. "An accidental collision, of course, but the Maharaja confesses he blames himself for her death entirely."

Watson nodded, unsure of whether the truth had led to his feeling better or worse. "Survivor's Guilt, I suppose...?"

"Not at all," Holmes answered, "Common sense. I see no viable reason why the Maharaja should _not_ blame himself for his wife's death!"

"Sherlock..." Irene had re-entered the room and had apparently heard the last few moments of Holmes and Watson's conversation. Her gaze now flicked from Holmes to Watson and back again, as if she were shooting concerned glances towards the latter, and a non-verbal warning to the former. "Sherlock," she said again with intent, her eyes flashing meaningfully.

"Had he been there, he could easily have saved her life – they say there was more than time for the Queen to move out of harm's way, but she simply did not notice the cart coming until it was too late." Holmes bit down on his pipe as if this settled the matter.

He glanced towards Watson. The doctor seemed to be having some trouble taking in the finer details of Holmes' story – his eyes were fixed resolutely on the floor, still shaking hands fumbling and fiddling with a glass bottle half-full of cod liver oil for want of a distraction. But for all his skills of observation and superior deduction, Holmes did not make the connection between Watson's clear discomfort and the tale he himself was recounting. That said, Sherlock Holmes had never been one for imagining the effect his words could have emotionally on those around him...

"I feel we could all learn from the manner in which the Queen died." Holmes continued his rather sanctimonious speech with no consideration for the imploring and frankly horrified expression on Irene's face. "Those among us who are unmarried –in particular the women present..." he shot a quick glance in Irene's direction, "-Should take greater care when crossing the road!" Next he turned to Watson. "And those who are married should take greater care of their wives!"

"Sherlock, let's go out," Irene strode into the room, momentarily forgetting her quarrel with Holmes in her haste to end this conversation before it could proceed any further. "I feel like a walk... Would you care to join me? _Now..." _

Watson, however, held up a hand to silence her. He fixed Holmes with his most virulent glare, still holding the glass bottle in one hand.

"Holmes, you are an intelligent man..."

"Only 'intelligent'?" Holmes mocked an affronted expression. "Watson, you insult me!"

"You are an intelligent man," Watson repeated, "Therefore you shouldn't have any difficulty grasping the meaning behind the words – 'Leave The Subject Be'. Do you understand me?"

"I was merely trying to ensure that nothing similar to the predicament of the Maharaja and his Queen should befall you and Mary," Holmes said. He had no idea of why he was talking back to his friend when it was quite clear this was not the time to argue. Indeed, a tiny voice inside Holmes' head was screaming blue murder; imploring him to stop tormenting Watson and to, like the doctor himself had said, leave the subject well alone. But there was no reason Holmes could see to follow such a request – not from Watson, nor from his conscience. And so he returned his pipe to his mouth and prepared to deliver a final, admittedly antagonistic, observation.

"But I'm sure you don't require my advice, Watson," he said with a complimentary smile. "After all, one would hope you are able to take better care of your wife than the Maharaja apparently has of his!"

There was an ear-splitting 'SMASH' as the glass bottle which had previously been in Watson's hand hit the wall behind Holmes' head and smashed into dozens of tiny pieces. Holmes ducked the projectile, but no amount of reflex or foresight could have prepared him for the expression on the countenance of his best friend – the doctor's entire face was contorted with unspeakable, burning hatred from the grey irises of his eyes to the tip of his nose and point of his chin. For the first time in his life, Holmes felt quite taken-aback. This expression had not been present when Holmes had offended Mary at their first meeting; nor had it appeared when Holmes had caused Watson to miss his supper with the in-laws by landing him in a detention cell, awaiting bail. But before Holmes could comment or even begin to comprehend what he might have said to enrage Watson so, the anger melted away as the doctor's face creased over with uncontainable emotion. And then, quite overcome with the effort of suppressing the tears which always threatened, Watson clamped a hand over his mouth and dashed from the room.

No sooner had he left, Irene rounded on Holmes.

"You couldn't just leave well enough alone, could you? And after all he's been through, too!"

"Miss Adler, I confess myself to be at a loss," Holmes said slowly, his eyes fixed on the door through which Watson had just made his dramatic exit. "You appear to know far more than I, so I shall ask you -What is the matter with Watson?"

Irene stared at him incredulously. The wind had apparently been taken from her sails with the realisation that Holmes truthfully did not know why Watson had taken such great offence to his comments.

"Has he not told you?" Irene said finally, dumbfounded.

"Evidently not."

"Oh God..." Irene whispered. "Oh God, that poor man...he suffered in silence this whole time. I thought he'd have told you first!"

"Told me what, exactly?"

"Holmes, it's Mary..." Irene took a deep breath, realising now that she was breaking Watson's confidence, but at the same time knowing that the deed was already done. "She's ill...really ill. It's Tuberculosis – Watson got a telegram just after her diagnosis, but there's nothing he can do for her. There's not much anyone can do for her..."

Holmes stared at Irene, unblinking, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. Mary was dying? The very thought seemed impossible, unreal. Could Watson be about to lose the woman he loved forever? The feeling of something thoroughly unpleasant began to stir within Holmes' stomach – guilt, he now realised, for the way he had treated Watson.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but found that there were no words on his tongue. There was no way he could excuse or explain the way he had behaved, and he knew it.

Irene stared expectantly at Holmes, willing him to say something, anything, to make everything alright again. But Holmes said nothing. Without a word or a backward glance, he turned away from Irene and strode from the room.

Irene watched him go. She waited until the door at the bottom of the stairs clicked shut to indicate Holmes' departure before leaving the room herself and heading off to find Watson.


	22. When You're Not Strong

Irene found Watson in the other bedroom. The drapes were partially drawn, but the red light of the sunset pouring from the gap inbetween illuminated the room, allowing Irene to see the doctor; standing with his back to her, arms braced on either side of his head which was resting on the wall. He must have heard the door open, for he spoke although did not look 'round.

"Holmes. Go away. Now is not the time..." His teeth were tightly; voice thick with ill-concealed emotion.

"It's me."

At the sound of Irene's voice, Watson turned slowly and dropped his hands to his sides. Tears were still welling in his eyes, but they spilled over and began to leak down his cheeks at the sight of her -the woman who, against the odds placed down by both decency and society, had become his friend. There was a sob building deep in his chest; all of the terror and sorrow he felt for Mary finally manifesting itself in a form other than sleepless nights and loss of appetite. He had been fighting the almost overwhelming urge to break down for days, but now as Irene held her arms wide and embraced him, he found himself unable to hold it in any longer.

"There now, it's OK..." Irene was crying too as she rubbed Watson's back soothingly. She had never seen the doctor lose control before, and it was most unnerving; as if she had stumbled upon something private or unnatural. Though she knew it was in no way relative to the doctor's torment, Irene found herself thinking of her own sadness at being rejected yet again by Sherlock Holmes. Her tears mingled with Watson's splashed onto the floorboards as they held each other in the ever-increasing darkness.

* * *

"There wasn't anything you could have done differently..." Irene and Watson had finally got 'round to their earlier-discussed drink and were sitting side-by-side in the two armchairs, both clutching glasses of golden brandy.

"I could have been there." Watson apparently disagreed with Irene's most recent claim. "If I'd been at home, perhaps I could have diagnosed her sooner."

"And then gone down with TB yourself." Irene sipped from her brandy glass, anxious to purge Watson of his unnecessary guilt and self-loathing, but at the same time aware that the doctor was in an unimaginably difficult place and that preaching to him would do very little good.

Watson still looked troubled, although he was no longer emotional. Indeed, now that the moment had passed and his feelings were not immediately threatening to burst forth from inside his chest, he felt somewhat ashamed of his outburst.

"Just remember you came out here for a reason," Irene advised. "Even if you hate him right now, you're here for Holmes, and I think you made the right choice coming with him."

"I know he doesn't mean to offend," Watson said gruffly. "Perhaps this whole business could have been avoided if I'd just been honest with him from the start; told him about the situation with Mary..." Though it took an extraordinary amount of effort, he managed a wry smile. "Ah, the gift of hindsight!"

"To change the past would be wonderful, wouldn't it..?" Irene said wistfully, swishing the remaining brandy around the inside of the glass. In the silence that followed, she found her eyes wandering towards the bed where she and Holmes had spent the hours of the previous night in each other's arms. Thinking back on it all, Irene found she had to look away again. Even being in the room was beginning to constrict her windpipe. There was a roaring in her ears which just wouldn't quieten down, and her heart was hammering so hard she was sure it was about to burst into flames. Her distress must have been evident, for Watson set down his brandy glass and leaned towards her concernedly.

"Irene, are you alright?" It was an example of the man's unequalled selflessness that he was able to worry about others when so much heartbreak was present in his own life.

Irene thought momentarily of lying, but Watson was no idiot. In fact, she was surprised he had not already worked out the truth for himself...

"It's just...Holmes," she said finally, flatly. "He's...He's really something, isn't he?"

Watson nodded, understanding, as he always did, the full extent of what had been said and also of what had not. "He can be a difficult man to deal with."

"I've never met anyone like him," Irene whispered, as though she believed speaking too loudly would add further magnitude to the words she was already afraid to say. "My former husband and I – we married out of convenience, nothing more. I suppose I've never experienced real..." Her nerve failed before she could spell out the final word, but it hung in the air nevertheless.

"Well I would suggest a civilised conversation," said Watson, "Though with Holmes, that _is_ often an impossibility." He sighed deeply. "I think we're both in a mess here, Irene..."

"Of all the private detectives in the world..."

"Holmes _is_ a fairly special breed." Watson nodded his agreement and swigged the final mouthfuls of his brandy. The warmth of the liquor seared the back of his throat, providing a fleeting yet welcome relief to his troubles. "If it helps at all, I'm sorry Holmes has let you down so terribly."

"And I'm sorry your wife is so ill..." Another moment passed before Irene shifted in her chair far enough to wrap her arms around Watson and hug him tightly. He coughed uncomfortably, but nonetheless gave her a quick, comforting squeeze in return. Irene wished she could have said more, but really, there was nothing more she _could_ say. The truth was that not even the words of Britain or America's greatest poets could help Mary, and Irene was suddenly able to empathise with how useless Watson must be feeling. His entire world -not to mention those of his two daughters- was falling apart around him, and he could do nothing to help. What must have made matters worse was his considerable medical knowledge – still not extensive enough to save the love of his life from a slow and undignified death.

"You don't have to apologise for him, you know," Irene said as they broke apart. "If this is anyone's fault, it's my own..."

"Apologising on behalf of Holmes has become a necessary habit," Watson said, "Especially since he seems incapable of doing it himself when it is most definitely called for." He shook his head, a slight smile creeping to his lips. "No, I think it is society to blame for Holmes' behaviour rather than your actions..."

"How do you mean?"

"The expectations of marriage, responsibility, children, family, work..." Watson smiled for definite now. "Do you honestly see Sherlock Holmes committing to that lot anytime soon?"

"I never asked him to marry me," Irene said, the ghost of her familiar merry laugh escaping from her lips.

"Luckily enough," Watson said, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "A few carriages short of a train-wreck that would have been!"

"In what way?"

"Blameless though you might be for the way Holmes has treated you of late, you, Irene, are no more compatible with marriage than Holmes is." He shook his head, smiling again. "Goodness only knows what you'd be like married to each other!"

There was a moment's further silence as the gravity of Watson's statement sank in. And then, though there had possibly never been a less appropriate moment to do so, both Irene and Watson looked at each other before beginning to laugh. They laughed until the tears began to fall once again, though this time out of mirth rather than sadness. They laughed because they did not know what else to do or say; whether to laugh or whether to cry still remained a mystery. But in such a time of emotional turmoil, it was a comfort, however small, to know that they did at least have each other to lean on.

* * *

The desolate chiming of the bell in the castle clock tower signified midnight – four whole hours since Holmes had made his departure from the rooms. A now empty bottle of brandy between them on the table, Irene and Watson were both drifting comfortably in and out of an alcohol-infused slumber, the troubles and tumult of the recent hours forgotten for the time being.

Unaware of just what had awoken her, Irene jolted suddenly to life in her armchair. She glanced in Watson's direction to see that he too was wide awake and fully alert; much more so than Irene herself who was still groggy from liquor and disturbed sleep.

"Did you hear something?" Watson's tone was unusually sharp, and Irene was put instantly on edge. Before she could answer, however, there came a strange noise from somewhere nearby – a sort of rhythmic banging, loud enough, clearly, to have waken both of the room's slumbering occupants.

Irene went to the bedroom door and pulled it open, but nobody stood outside wanting to come in. The banging was coming from somewhere else then; from the sounds of it, somewhere inside the room.

While Irene was puzzling over the source of the mysterious banging, Watson's instinct and experience told him to immediately infer sinister circumstances. Thus, he stepped swiftly past Irene and out of the room, down the corridor and into his own sleeping quarters, returning mere seconds later with his walking cane under one arm. At this moment more than any other wishing his revolver had not been confiscated by the British Guard upon their arrival, Watson took up a defensive stance and began to approach the fireplace – from behind which he was sure now the noise was coming from.

"Get a weapon or get behind me." Watson's orders were issued in the steely voice of a born soldier.

Though not originally concerned by the noise, Watson's attitude sent immediate shivers of fear up Irene's spine. If the banger –whoever he or she might be- was the same person responsible for the death of Jamal and the shooting of their window, then maybe there _was_ cause to worry after all...

Watson knelt down next to the fireplace and hesitantly placed his ear near to the grate. He jumped back when an especially loud bang resounded from the brickwork which formed the back of the hearth. _From the brickwork?_

"There's someone trying to get through," Irene muttered, aware that she was stating the obvious.

Nodding, but not taking his eyes from the fireplace, Watson drew the blade from inside the walking cane. He was preparing to have another look into the hearth when a great creaking came from deep inside the bowels of the fireplace, as if the entire structure was about to fall forwards into the room.

Instinctively, Watson raised his blade high above his head ready to strike as, bizarrely, the back of the hearth began to slide backwards into the wall. And then, with another enormous groan, it swung inwards like a door in a frame to reveal a shadowy figure just inside.

"Show yourself," Watson barked, "Put your hands in the air, we are armed!"

"Now, now, Watson, there's no need for drastic measures..."

The lower jaws of both Watson and Irene hit the floor at the sight which beheld them: a grubby and scruffy-looking Sherlock Holmes clambering on all fours out of the fireplace.

"Good God, Holmes!" Watson lowered his blade with a guttural breath. "I nearly ran you through!"

"What _were_ you doing?" Irene demanded, momentarily forgetting her qualms with Holmes and fetching a damp towel from the sideboard with which he could wash some of the soot stains from his face.

"I have, through original conjecture and then theological deduction, discovered the way in which the assailant entered our rooms earlier this evening," Holmes announced, straightening up and accepting the cloth from Irene. He tapped a foot against the seemingly simple brickwork of the fireplace and was rewarded by a tinny 'clang'. "What appeared at first to be a simple fireplace has in fact declared itself to be a masterpiece of modern engineering." Holmes swung the fireplace-door forward fully so that the still-bemused Irene and Watson could see past him into the gaping black space which lay behind. "The brickwork is in fact mounted upon a hinged metal casing, forming the exit to what I can only assume to be a hidden passageway in and out of the guest quarters."

"How did you know it was there?" Watson, being more than a few inches taller than Holmes, had to kneel down yet further than his friend in order to look into the yawning hole in the fireplace. He could see nothing but blackness.

"My suspicions were first aroused by the mystery behind the manner in which our rooms were entered from behind locked doors," Holmes began, and it was clear to all that he was enjoying himself immensely. "The locks were neither picked nor smashed, and the only key lies safely with Irene." He gave a courteous nod in her direction. "Consequently, it seems fair to infer that the assailant entered the rooms by another means; thus, the existence of a secret passageway first presented itself." He knelt down by the bed and beckoned to his companions.

"Once aware of the problem I was tackling, I began to search for further evidence. My hunt nevertheless proved to be entirely fruitless until I discovered this – the tiniest smudge of black soot on the bedclothes; leading me to the conclusion that the assailant entered through the fireplace..." Upon closer inspection, Watson and Irene could both see that there were indeed sooty marks on the white sheets of the bed.

"Where does the passageway lead?" Irene asked as she straightened up. She was clearly enthused by the breakthrough, for her eyes were shining in a way which they had not done for days.

"I'm glad you ask." Holmes stepped back and gestured to the fireplace. "Ladies first, Miss Adler..."

Irene looked down at her fine attire, and then back at Holmes with an expression of utmost disbelief.

"Like hell, Sherlock! In this dress?"

"Change first, if you must." Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "But make it quick. Every second we waste could see our mark sprinting yet further from our clutches..."

Irene collected several more sensible garments from her armoire and, upon seeing that neither of the men was going to vacate and allow her to change, she made her way out of the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, Watson and Holmes were left totally alone.

The silence that followed was nothing less than unbearably uncomfortable for all involved. Holmes stared at Watson, and Watson stared back at him, his grey eyes burning little holes in the middle of his companion's forehead. They had seldom argued before, and when they had, it had only ever been minor discrepancies.

For all his bravado, Holmes knew full well he had upset Watson, and now he knew the reason behind his friend's downcast behaviour, he felt indescribably guilty for all the hurt he had caused; particularly with the realisation that Watson was only here and away from his family because of Holmes himself and his most recent case.

However, knowing he owed Watson a most sincere apology and actually putting that apology into words were two very different kettles of fish. In the end, he settled for directing his eyes away from the unsmiling doctor and muttering the beginnings of an explanation of his actions.

"Watson, I... Words cannot even begin to describe how... I am so very... Your dear wife and the girls... I have no way of saying this, but..." He looked pleadingly in Watson's direction, and was overwhelmed with relief when the doctor conceded a thin-lipped smile.

"Holmes, was that supposed to be an apology?"

"That was the general idea, yes." Holmes ran a hand through his hair and looked Watson in the eye. "As I said before, I am so very..." His voice died to a low, awkward rumble, and Watson could no longer hear his words.

"Think nothing of it, old boy." Watson raised a hand, discomfited, and patted his old friend on the arm. "I suppose, in a sense, there's blame to share..."

Holmes would no doubt have had something more to say, but this was the moment in which Irene chose to re-enter the room – dressed prudently (but unfortunately for Holmes, elegantly) in her fitted suit trousers, hobnailed boots and what was this time a blue silk blouse with a simply-cut neckline.

"Am I interrupting anything?" Irene raised an eyebrow and grinned, noticing the air of awkward gratification which had descended upon the room in her absence.

"No, no, of course not. We were just waiting for you," said Watson, but his denial was spoilt by the renewed jauntiness in his step as he and his two comrades gathered around the open fireplace.

"How far is it to the other end?" Irene asked, using a jade clip to pin her hair up out of her eyes.

"Not more than three-hundred yards," Holmes answered, bending slightly at the knee to duck under the rim of the fireplace and into the tunnel. "Not a long journey, but progress will be seriously hampered by the lack of light inside the tunnel itself..."

"A lamp..?" Watson glanced fleetingly around the room, but the oil burners around the room were screwed indefinitely to the wall with no chance of moving them. He sighed. "Right, no lamp, perfect. Holmes, you lead the way."

"Be sure to close the passage door behind us," Holmes called back as he began to move away down the dark corridor. "Should our mark return to the scene of the crime and find us hot on the trail, the consequences could be severe..."

They entered the passageway slowly and one behind the other – Holmes (who already knew his way) led with Irene just behind him. Watson, with his blade still unsheathed and defensively-positioned, followed at the back having obediently closed the door in their wake.

"One thing you have yet to explain to us, Holmes," Watson said as they inched through the pitch blackness. "How exactly did you get into this tunnel in the first place?"

"Through the trapdoor shutter at the opposite end." Even though it was too dark for him to see Holmes, Watson knew the detective's face would be a mask of condescending mockery.

"Don't push your luck Holmes," Watson said warningly. "What I mean is, how did you even know where to look for it?"

"My suspicions were first aroused when I noticed the stool underneath where pictures had been torn from the walls of our rooms." Holmes voice came from out of the darkness, made all the more eerie by the fact that Watson could not see where it was coming from. "Tell me, what does the need for an extra twelve inches to reach the paintings say about our assailant?"

"He was below average height." Watson answered almost immediately.

"Very good, Watson..."

"But surely a man of that height should be easier to find than most?" Watson speculated. "A stature that small _is_ a fairly distinctive characteristic, Holmes..."

"In a man, certainly..." Holmes slowed the pace of the group as they turned a sharp corner of the tunnel. Watson bumped his head against the low ceiling and let out a peal of hushed curses.

Irene had not spoken at all throughout the men's exchange, but she had been listening carefully. In truth, she did not enjoy being in the dark. The gloomy shadows of a room at night was different somehow – here, the blackness was so overpowering that it obscured all else. She was aware of the passive rise and fall of her chest, but still felt as though the darkness was crushing every mouthful of oxygen from her lungs. She forced herself to stay calm; to not panic even though she swore she could sense the narrow walls of the passageway closing in around them.

It seemed to Irene like an age had passed since they'd began their journey down the passageway, but at last Holmes called the group to a stop.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have reached our destination!"

It was lighter here, Irene noticed. An ominous yellow glow seemed to be creeping through a crack in the ceiling directly above their heads – what she assumed to be the trapdoor exit Holmes had described earlier.

Using the added light to his advantage, Holmes signalled silently to his companions that they were to make no noise whatsoever. Then, with a skill born of long practice, he slid one finger under the trapdoor, lifting it no more than half an inch. Irene saw him level his eyes with the crack for just a second and scan the area outside. Apparently satisfied that the coast was clear, he pushed up on the trapdoor so that it fell open completely.

"If you would all care to follow me..." Holmes poked his head out of the trapdoor and pushed up with both arms.

Irene's heart was hammering with excitement as she followed suit. All the fibres of the mystery; all the evidence they had worked so hard to gather – it had all led up to this moment. And so she was initially disappointed when she exited the trapdoor to find that she did not immediately recognise her surroundings.

The chamber in which they now stood was flooded with the light of five oil lamps, and Irene found she had to squint briefly and allow her eyes to adjust to the change before she could focus properly on her vicinity. When her sight was fully restored, however, she saw that they were at the bottom of a spiral staircase which stretched up as far as the eye could see. More lamps lit the path all the way up to the top where Irene could only assume there was a room or dwelling of some kind. It was maybe two seconds more before Irene worked out for herself where they were standing.

"Oh God, of _course_!" Irene smashed a balled fist into the palm of her other hand, the pieces suddenly slotting together all at once. "It's so obvious, isn't it? Why did I not see it before..?"

"'Below average height'," Watson repeated as he too clambered out of the trapdoor and surveyed the scene. "You were spot-on there, Holmes..."

All three stood still and looked straight up towards the top of the staircase, faced with the sudden and disturbing reality that the secret passageway previously taken by a dangerous assailant had led them directly to the private tower of Princess Jhasmine...

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**Author's Note: Am really hoping that this more frequent updating will become a habit now exams are over til May (GCSEs *sobs*), so will do my best :D I'm sure many of you had already anticipated where this was going, but I promise there will be a proper explanation of events next chapter. Please let me know what you think...I know Watson's emotional moments at the beginning could possibly be seen as OOC, but I'm hoping you'll overlook it. He's only human, and his wife IS dying after all.. :P**


	23. Crossing A Line

**Author's Note: A LOT of chopping and changing went into this to get the finished chapter out to you guys ASAFP - the original finished version ran to over 9,000 words, so I thought I'd split it into two separate chapters just to prolong the tension and actually make it readable! :P I can't BELIEVE this story has over 300 reviews now! :D You guys have made me a really happy authour with all your lovely comments, so THANK YOU! Much love to everyone who's taken the time to leave a review since the story start! :D Right, chapter 23...Enjoy! :)**

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There was no way of knowing whether Jhasmine was in or out, so naturally Holmes, Watson and Irene headed straight for the top of the tower to find out.

"Jhasmine has been in a position of misgiving ever since the shooting of the window," Holmes stated as they climbed, one behind the other, up the narrow spiral staircase, "Especially when you, Watson, indentified her to be a startlingly able marksman."

"I agree with you that the evidence indicates Jhasmine's involvement in the case," Watson said diplomatically, "But what possible motive could she have for the theft of the Sapphire?"

"And Jamal's death," Irene put in. "Jhasmine may be cosseted and egocentric, but there's no way she'd have just sat back and let her brother come to harm..."

"As to a motive for murder, I have a theory in place which will require further evidence for confirmation," Holmes said offhandedly. He was clearly deep in thought – Irene could almost hear the cogs and wheels of his mind whirring nineteen to the dozen.

"Allow me," Watson said, not without an air of superiority. "Captain Alcott has had his designs on the Sapphire since the British takeover, and finally managed to seize it at the beginning of last autumn, forcing Jhasmine to aid him by shooting the Kashmir guards through the window. With the Sapphire gone and the authorities alerted, he chose Irene as his scapegoat in order to purge himself of suspicion."

"What about Jamal?" Irene asked. It was an area of the case she was most anxious to unravel, though she was unsure of just how she would react if and when she was facing his killer...

"Perhaps he discovered the truth," Watson suggested. "We very nearly met a similar fate ourselves for the crime of knowledge. If Alcott had a hold over Jhasmine, he could easily have utilised her skills in order to finish us off, in much the same way as he used her to steal the Sapphire."

Holmes, who had said nothing throughout this exchange, had to admit there was some weight behind Watson's argument. However there was one area which still plagued him -the nature of the hold Alcott had over the young princess. The Tale of Nahali (as it had become known) had been a disturbing yet intriguing one. Had Alcott violated the young princess in a similar way? Or perhaps he had just threatened to... Either way, there was a significant intention behind Jhasmine's actions, but could it really be as simple as fear?

By now they were close to reaching the top of the tower, and Holmes, still leading the group, deliberately slowed the pace. There was a very real chance that Jhasmine was asleep in her room, and if this was the case, it was essential that she did not wake and discover intruders in her private quarters.

Rounding a final bend in the staircase, they came face-to-face with a hardwood door, behind which lay Jhasmine's rooms. Holmes crouched and peered through the gaping keyhole, before standing again, satisfied that there was nobody in the room. He tried the handle, but the door was locked fast.

Watson asked Irene watched impatiently as Holmes pulled a set of metal implements from his jacket pocket and began to work on picking the lock. When five minutes later he had made almost no headway, Watson handed his cane to Irene for safekeeping and began to roll up his shirtsleeves.

"Jhasmine could be back at any minute, you know..."

Holmes straightened up, slipping his tools back into his pocket with an air of reluctance. "Indeed. If you would, Watson...?"

With a grin, the doctor stepped up to the plate. A single well-aimed kick had the door swinging on its hinges, the lock smashed to pieces, and a triumphant Watson standing in the doorway. He led the way into the tower cautiously, aware that the noise they had made in breaking down the door could easily have alerted anyone nearby to their presence.

Jhasmine's room was illuminated by the soft light of several oil lamps fastened precariously to the rounded walls. The room itself was unmistakeably inhabited by a princess, for finery was present on all sides. Sheets of purest silk lay on the four-poster bed, as did several colourful throw pillows. Every flat surface of the polished furniture set was littered with expensive trinkets; as was the handsome wooden dressing table with its gilt-framed looking glass shining unostentatiously. Two swords set in a gold hilt were crossed and set over the fireplace. Jhasmine clearly treasured her possessions – as he walked slowly around the room, Watson discovered an oak chest filled to the brim with children's toys kept from her childhood. Thinking suddenly of his own daughters back at home, he wished he could bring the chest back with him; knowing what joy it would bring them to play with such fine toys.

"What are we looking for?" Irene asked. Long shrouds of gold satin hung from the ceiling to form a dressing partition, and she was threading each strand through her fingers absent-mindedly as she spoke. The question had been aimed at Holmes, but the detective was apparently distracted – his head and shoulders buried under Jhasmine's bed. Irene exchanged an amused glance with Watson who folded his arms across his chest, happy to watch his friend at work whilst safe in the knowledge that he was hot on the scent of a clue.

Watson could not have been more correct – Holmes emerged a few seconds later from beneath the bed clutching a small wooden box in one hand. He placed it on the mattress without a word, signalling for his comrades to join him.

The box was locked, but Holmes made short work of it (smaller locks proving once again to be his forte). Watson had half-expected the mysterious box to contain the missing Sapphire, but the real contents was marginally less exciting – a pair of exquisite golden earrings and a small leather-bound book.

Irene glanced briefly upon the earrings, but it was clear that the book was what Holmes had been so interested in finding. She looked on as the detective flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the text within emotionlessly.

"Most engaging," he murmured. "Most engaging indeed..."

"What is it?" Watson leaned over to catch a glimpse of the pages. "Jhasmine's diary?" He frowned. "It's written in English..."

"She clearly did not want a member of her family stumbling upon her secrets," Holmes said. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm as he flicked to the page which corresponded to the events of the previous autumn – the time during which the Sapphire was stolen.

Watson, who had always found it difficult to take in information from a written page, began to read the entry out loud.

"'_To My Dear Diary. I saw Bernard again today – we walked by the river and he told me of his life before we met. His life it must have been terrible, for he says I make him happier than anyone before has..._'" Watson raised an eyebrow. "Her English is far from perfect, I see..." He cleared his throat before beginning a second entry. "'_Dear Diary. Today, Bernard gave me a gift of earrings of gold. He knelt before me and wept for he wishes to give me better gifts than earrings. I know that he loves me, and I do love him too.'"_

As he brought his eyes up from the page to glance at his companions, Watson's face was a mask of horrified realisation. "Bernard? As in..."

"Bernard Alcott," Irene finished grimly. "Yes."

"'_Today, Bernard walked with me again. Later we lay together in the tower, and he promised me another gift. He said – "I will give you a gift of deepest blue; the value of which cannot be defined, and its beauty surpassed by only your own. Then, maybe, I shall al last feel worthy of your love..."'"_

"What are you doing here?"

Watson and Irene were startled by the voice, and there was a dull thud as the doctor dropped the leather diary onto the floor in shock. Holmes, of course, was less surprised. He turned slowly on his heel to look the furious Princess Jhasmine -for it was she who had come upon them so suddenly- in the face.

"Your Highness." Watson found his voice. "Please forgive our intrusion..."

"What are you doing here?" Jhasmine repeated, "These are my rooms."

"As I said, we mean no offence by our presence." Watson had realised that the only possible way out of this mess was to effectively kiss Jhasmine's feet lest she saw fit to raise the alarm.

"You have no business here."

"Yes, but neither does your power-hungry Neanderthal of an illicit lover." Holmes apparently had his own plans, none of which involved buttering up the princess. He read the shock etched into Jhasmine's face with a gleam of triumph. "We English are rather more observant than your father, it would seem..."

"What are these lies?" Jhasmine's stare never faltered, but her hesitation had given her away.

"Just how did you react to Alcott's gift of your family's priceless Indian sapphire?" Watson had his arms folded across his chest and was fixing upon the defenceless princess a gaze which had in the past caused many courageous soldiers to tremble at the knee. "A generous gift from your lover, but at a price. Technically speaking, the Sapphire belongs to each new Maharaja of the province, does it not? I suppose you jumped at the chance to take possession of the beautiful stone that would one day become your brother's as opposed to your own..?"

Jhasmine appeared thunderstruck, and Watson almost expected her to burst into tears. And so he was extraordinarily surprised when her countenance broke forth into a calculating smile, almost as though she was proud to have prompted such accusations by her actions.

"You guess correctly that Captain Alcott is my lover," she said smoothly, "But only one out of two, I am scared to say." She tossed her shimmering waterfall of ebony hair to one side, smiling beguilingly around at the three intruders. "I do not have the Sapphire – It was taken by another, long before My Love could take it for me."

"But you helped him, didn't you?" Watson said sharply, ignoring her frank denial of his accusations. "You shot and killed the guards from through the window of the lock-up; using the same technique last week to attempt to assassinate us while we investigated the murder of your brother."

"Perhaps I did help," Jhasmine said defiantly. "But I hold with my truth – I have no Sapphire."

"The motive behind your brother's death remained a mystery until very recently," Holmes said to Jhasmine, and Watson noticed that the detective had made no attempt to either confirm or deny his the allegations he had aimed at the princess. "Right up until, in fact, we discovered your memoirs recorded in this book." He snapped the leather diary shut and waved it back and forth to emphasise his point. "Just how did your brother react when he discovered you were sharing a bed with the enemy? Aggressively enough to warrant his termination, it would appear..."

"I did not kill my brother." Jhasmine's voice had taken on a steely edge. "How dare you suggest I would do something like that?"

"We know it was Alcott." Irene spoke for the first time, her gaze boring through Jhasmine's forehead as the two women stared each other down. "You might not have killed Jamal, but you were involved just the same."

"No." Jhasmine shook her head. "No, Bernard has already told me. It did not happen; it was not as you say it."

"Do you believe everything dear 'Bernard' tells you?" Irene's voice was simply dripping with contempt, and Watson listened with a sudden sense of unease. "You say you love him, but I wonder if you'd love him if you knew what he truly was...If you knew what he'd done..."

"Do not you talk about him in that way," Jhasmine exploded, waving a foreboding finger in Irene's face. "He...He loves me like no man has –more than my father who so longed for another son. More even than my brother, Jamal. And no one has loved Bernard the way I love him now. Tell me what you want, _Mrs Holmes_, but mark on my words – I will not betray My Love. Never in a thousand years; not if you hurt and torture me; not anything you do, Mrs Irene, because I promise you, I will die first. Die like my brother died for me..." Coming to the end of her heartfelt speech, Jhasmine let out a rasping breath and began to sob openly.

Watson sighed deeply. "And there I was, thinking she'd come quietly!"

"There is hope yet, Watson." Holmes was not fooled in the slightest by Jhasmine's sorrowful display, believing them to be crocodile tears and nothing more.

Watson was about to reply, but the words never left his lips. There came from just below the sound all three intruders had been dreading – the noise of a heavy step on the stairs and then, the voice to which the foot belonged.

"Jhasmine? Jhasmine who is up there with you?" Footsteps thundered up the staircase, and not a moment later, the door flew open to reveal Captain Alcott himself - taller and wider in stature than either Holmes or Watson remembered; a truly terrifying spectre in the dim light. More terrifying still was the sudden realisation on the part of Watson that their latest visitor was blocking the only exit from the tower...

Alcott's face registered first great surprise, and then fury as he looked around the room and recognised the three trespassers.

"You! What is the meaning of this? Why are you here?"

Watson, struggling to find the words to answer Alcott, noticed that Jhasmine had stopped crying in the presence of her lover.

"You were right, Holmes," he said, not taking his eyes from the fuming Captain of the Guard, "It looks as though Jhasmine _will_ come quietly..." He nodded in Alcott's direction. "Him, I'm not so sure about!"

"Good evening, Captain Alcott." Holmes was, as always, the picture of calm and control when addressing a potentially dangerous suspect. "So glad you could join us – we were just running over the few remaining details of the case in the hope of a confirmation of our suspicions." He took out his clay pipe and began to stuff the barrel with tobacco as he spoke. Watson could not help but smile at his nerve. "Your young lover here has been most helpful so far, though she would rather think otherwise." Holmes cocked his complacent half-smile in the fuming Alcott's direction. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to contribute?"

"You forget your place, Holmes," Alcott snapped. His face was defiant, but his eyes -almost childlike in their size and shade of light blue- were fixed meaningfully upon Jhasmine with more than a little concern apparent in his gaze. Holmes, of course, noticed at once and felt with a sense of triumph and accomplishment that his deductions on the murder of Jamal had been almost entirely correct.

"When Jamal discovered the nature of your and Jhasmine's relationship, he was less than pleased, I surmise." Holmes addressed the glaring Captain directly, oblivious to the immense difference in height, in which he himself was distinctly lacking. "Did he threaten to expose the pair of you to his father? You exchanged harsh words by the riverbank before you yourself began a struggle which ended in the young prince being held beneath the water until his breathing ceased. Realising the gravity of your actions, you made a hasty attempt to cover over your handprints in the mud of the bank before escaping from the scene, later keeping well out of the way when your own men arrived to investigate."

"But though you yourself were not present at the crime scene, somebody close to your heart was..." Holmes allowed his deep russet eyes to fall once again upon Jhasmine. "You had confessed to her previously, of course, and found that she not only sympathised with your actions, but felt indebted to you." He raised an eyebrow as he spoke now to Jhasmine. "Years of living in the shadow of your brother became a struggle, I daresay. It was you who saw Doctor Watson and myself by the riverbank on the day of your brother's death, was it not? Upon hearing our deductions, you knew the truth would soon come out, and so you acted upon your own will in attempting an assassination – shooting through the glass of our bedroom window in an attempt to remove us permanently from the case and ensuring your sweetheart would escape conviction."

"This is absurd," Alcott spluttered. He had gone very red in the face, and Holmes' elation grew by the second as he saw the Captain's irritation growing. "Your accusations have no grounds, and I am in half a mind to have you arrested immediately for libel, trespassing upon Royal premises and gross misconduct towards a member of Her Majesty's Guard!"

"The murder of a member of Indian Royalty should carry a fairly stiff penalty, wouldn't you agree, Watson?" Holmes seemed unperturbed by Alcott's brash warnings.

"Absolutely." The doctor nodded firmly, and it was clear to all present that he was enjoying himself immensely. "The Death Penalty, if I'm not mistaken..."

"And what about in the event of a full confession?"

"Life imprisonment perhaps, if you're lucky," Watson said carelessly. He was standing with his legs braced, holding his cane behind his neck with one hand at each end.

"There you have it, Captain," Holmes said. "Confess to the murder of the young prince as well as relinquish your tyrannical hold upon the people of Kashmir, and we will leave your violation of the young maid, Nahali, out of our testimony!"

"Nahali?" Alcott shook his head. "Who is Nahali?"

"There is no maid named Nahali," Jhasmine put in sulkily. She had edged her way closer to Alcott as Holmes had been speaking and now slipped her hand through his. Watson in response lowered his cane from his shoulder, fully prepared to draw his blade should consequences necessitate its use.

"Currently, no, there is not," Holmes said. "I daresay Captain Alcott could tell us _why_ not, Your Highness..." Though his face carried no discernible expression, the hatred was clear in his eye as he stared down Alcott.

Hearing Holmes' words and knowing full well what his next accusations would be, Irene closed her eyes briefly, as if dreading the enquiry to come. Alcott, with greedy eyes trained on Irene, noticed her discomfort and smiled nastily.

"You would do well not to believe everything your wife tells you, Holmes; I'm sure you are aware just as I am of what a lying little slut she is!"

Holmes kept his cool magnificently, but Watson was rather less controlled. As the red mist descended, he made a move towards Alcott, but Irene grabbed his arm and held him back. If there was one thing the Doctor could not stand, it was disrespect and degeneracy towards women – in particular the women whom he was close to.

Alcott was clearly unaware of the weapon Watson had concealed inside his walking cane, for he took a step towards the doctor and stared down into his furious face with the same cruel smirk.

"Temper, temper, Doctor Watson..." Irene tightened her grip on Watson's arm, but was relieved when he did not react.

"The Sapphire," Watson said through gritted teeth, narrowed eyes not leaving Alcott's face. "We know you have it, Alcott – we have firm evidence to suggest you intended to steal it as a gift for Jhasmine."

"_Very_ good." Alcott's immense sarcasm riled Watson yet further, but he was admittedly surprised to hear what seemed to be a confession to theft. "And so I _would_ have taken it, if your American whore hadn't gotten there first!"

Holmes was inwardly incensed by Alcott's words, but he managed to hold back his anger in time to catch hold of Watson and restrain him as the doctor once again made a grab for the strapping Captain.

"Now is not the time, Watson..." Holmes increased the severity of his grip, subliminally reminding the doctor that if it came down to brute strength, there would be no contest.

"The doctor is right, though Alcott, your days here are numbered," Holmes said. "When the evidence goes to court, you'll have little alternative than to confess to Jamal's murder."

"And the theft," Watson growled.

"Murder alone, Watson, will be good enough for Sergeant Hawthorne," Holmes assured him. He turned to Alcott once more. "Not that the gaolers will be at all pleased to see you; I hear England's prisons are riddled with enough filth as it is without the likes of you taking up valuable cell-space!"

Just as Holmes had hoped it would, Alcott's face switched briskly from its scarlet hue to a brilliant shade of plum.

"You would do well," Alcott roared, "To learn some respect for your superiors!"

Holmes had a cutting retort on the tip of his tongue, but Irene beat him to the mark.

"'Superiors'?" She gave an incredulous bark of laughter. "I _really_ hope you don't mean yourself, you lowdown pig!"

Alcott froze. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he were about to laugh, but then his hand swept forwards and caught Irene hard across the face. The slap echoed in the quiet of Jhasmine's tower room, but Irene did not cry out. She was more than capable of defending herself, even against such a formidable opponent as Alcott, but it would appear that Holmes was having none of it. Verbal abuse could be easily brushed aside, but he was determined that he would not stand by and watch whilst Irene was slapped around by anybody – much less a man three times her size. Confessions and justice served could wait; making Alcott pay for striking Irene most certainly could not!

In one surging, unexpected movement, Holmes used his entire bodyweight to tackle Alcott around the waist and send him hurtling backwards into Jhasmine's polished oak bookshelf. Books and ornaments toppled willy-nilly to the floor as violence exploded in the small tower room.

No sooner had Holmes bundled into Alcott, Jhasmine made a move towards the tower door, but was stopped in her tracks by Watson who drew his blade and held it to her throat.

"Don't you move," he said harshly. Jhasmine, however, had another trick up her sleeve. Ducking the blade with the grace and fluidity of a ballet dancer, she brought a satin slipper-clad foot up from below and thrust it hard between the doctor's legs. He crumpled with a groan, and the princess seized her chance; leaping lightly towards the fireplace, she snatched the crossed swords from the wall and pulled one of the shining blades free of its hilt. Watson was just beginning to recover himself, when he looked up to find a sword at his own gullet.

"_En garde,_ Doctor Watson."

Holmes, meanwhile, had realised his disadvantage in dealing with a man who outranked him in height, weight, and apparently in strength as well. It had taken the combined force of both himself and Watson to take down Dredger -Blackwood's man- two years previously, and Holmes was beginning to doubt whether or not he was capable of overpowering Alcott alone; especially as the subsequent two blows he pounded into the other man's face after his tackle had little effect. But he needn't have worried – Just as Alcott recovered his balance and lifted Holmes from the ground by his collar, Irene rounded and took a flying leap onto the Captain's back. Holding on tightly, she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head sharply backwards.

"Give him hell, Sherlock!"

Holmes took advantage of his enemy's momentary distraction to deliver two stinging slaps to his cheeks, followed up with a hard blow to the ribs. With a baleful roar, Alcott spun on the spot in an attempt to shake Irene off his back. One of her heels caught Holmes off the side of his head, tearing the skin open as the detective toppled off-balance. He tried to aim for a landing on the bed, but missed and landed on the floorboards with a sickening crunch.

Watson stepped backwards and over Holmes' sprawled figure with a slight smile down at his friend. Unfortunately enough, Jhasmine had proved herself to be as competent with a sword as she was with a shotgun!

"How are you holding out, Watson?" Holmes called out to his friend as he scrambled up off the floor.

"Never better, Holmes!" Watson had his hands full dealing with Jhasmine. The swords of both parties were cutting and slashing the air, crashing against one another in a vicious fight from which there could only be one victor. The two fighters were fairly evenly-matched, but when one flourish of his blade almost took her hand off at the wrist, Jhasmine realised with sickness of heart that the Englishman had the edge as far as fighting skill was concerned. Searching for a new tactic, she struck out wide with her blade so the doctor was forced to duck out of the way. Her sword caught one of the room's lamps and smashed it to pieces, coating the floorboards in thick flammable oil. With her free hand, she took hold of a vase which sat on the sideboard and swung it across her body, aiming for the unsuspecting Watson. The terracotta smashed loudly as it hit the doctor's skull, but he was not quite knocked out. Nevertheless, he was badly dazed and lost his balance, feeling his right knee wrench and pop as he fell. The agony was instantaneous – Watson could not hold back a cry as pain gripped him in its unrelenting talons and left him gasping for breath.

As Jhasmine stepped up to her victim and raised her sword, Watson was thinking of Mary – the way she smiled; the fresh flowery smell of her hair; the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers... The pain was all-consuming, and Watson could feel himself slipping slowly out of consciousness. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to pass out before he was run through...

A smash and a thud brought Watson suddenly back to full awareness. He raised his head as much as he dared, if only to see what was prolonging his certain death. To his immense shock and surprise, Jhasmine was laying face-down on the floorboards, apparently unconscious, amidst hundreds of tiny glass shards. Irene stood over her, cheeks flushed, and clutching the empty gilt frame of what had once been Jhasmine's own antique looking glass.

"You saved my life." Watson's face was contorted with pain, but he managed to look up at his Knight in Shining Armour and give her a smile.

"Too bad I couldn't save your leg." Irene bent at the knee and tapped Watson's injury, drawing hastily back when he howled in protest. "Sorry, Doc!"

"Old injury," Watson managed with a groan, "I doubt it will ever heal completely. Where's Holmes?"

Irene and Watson looked 'round and winced simultaneously, watching as the detective was punched repeatedly in the face, ribs and stomach by Alcott. The Captain had apparently witnessed Irene's assault of Jhasmine, and was taking out his frustration on the only member of the trio he could lay his hands on. Managing to block a particularly nasty jab with his elbow, Holmes turned his neck to stare incredulously at his two companions.

"Woman!" Another punch was thrown which Holmes expertly dodged with seconds to spare. "Now would be as good a time as any to step in!"

"What do you want me to do?" Irene scrambled up from the floor, unwilling to approach until there was a gap in the onslaught.

"Think of something!" Holmes was fortunate enough to have found one area in which he was superior to Alcott – boxing practice had left him quick on his feet, whilst the Captain of The Guard had roughly the speed of a two-legged donkey.

Irene stopped still for a moment to consider her options. It was beginning to dawn on her that she and Holmes had little chance of defeating Alcott by brute force alone; thus it was time to employ a new approach. Underneath the surface of Jhasmine's dressing table there was a high-backed carved wooden chair, and Irene felt sure it would pack a punch; even against a powerful opponent such as Alcott.

"Get yourself out of the way," Irene shouted to Watson as she stepped neatly over Jhasmine and began to haul the heavy chair across the room. It took all her strength to lift it to a sufficient height, but found that in balancing it on her shoulder, she had all the means necessary to form a decent battering-ram. Starting off at a run, Irene used the weight of their chair to add momentum to her stride, and Holmes ducked neatly out of the way just in time. Alcott barely had time to look up before the brunt of a heavy wooden chair hit him square in the stomach, knocking him backwards to the floor. He hit the ground and lay still. It was over.

"Are you alright?" Irene dropped the chair with a groan and hurried to Holmes' side. The detective was a mess – blood dripped from the cut on his head where Irene's boot had hit him; his face was a mass of already-forming bruises from the punches and slaps rained down upon him by Alcott, and the legs of his trousers were soaked in oil from the many lamps which had been smashed during the fight. Holmes, however, appeared not to have noticed. He ran a hand through his hair and raised an eyebrow when his hand came down red and bloody.

"What of the doctor?"

"He's very badly hurt!" Holmes smiled at Watson's disgruntled answer to the question he'd aimed at Irene. He was about to reply when a small 'click' made him look 'round.

Far from being knocked out, Alcott was sitting up in a pool of oil and blood. He was holding an apparently loaded revolver which was trained directly in Irene's direction.

"Down on your knees and put your hands behind your head," he snapped. "Now, Holmes, or I swear to God I will shoot her!"

Holmes looked at Irene. Irene looked at Holmes. Both of them looked over at Watson, who was eyeing the now stirring body of Jhasmine with ever-growing concern for their safety. Without a second thought, Holmes lowered himself slowly to his knees and placed his hands on his head.

As soon as Holmes was in a less threatening position, Alcott grabbed Irene by the arm and pulled her roughly to one side. He jabbed the barrel of the revolver up into her throat. Far be it for Irene Adler to whimper with fear, she merely stared him out as if all the fear and misery in the world were not enough to make her show Alcott she was scared of him.

"I did so easily, you know," he whispered so only Irene could hear him. "You're a beautiful woman, though I can smell the filth on you. I could do it again right now, and this time I'd make your husband watch..."

"Burn in hell!" Irene spat readily into his face, and was rewarded by Alcott grabbing a handful of her hair and wrenching it tightly around his fist until she cried out in agony. Holmes could only watch with anguish and fury, knowing that one false move now could cost him Irene's life.

"Feisty as ever, Irene," Alcott sneered, adjusting his grip on the revolver. "You never could do as you were told, could you? And you know what happens to naughty girls like yourself, don't you?" He threw her to one side, turning the revolver this time upon Holmes. "I think I'll shoot you first," he said. "It would give me great pleasure to make that bitch watch you die..."

Seemingly oblivious to Irene's gulping sobs in the background, Holmes looked up at Alcott and said, with alarming calmness – "Very good, Captain. You have beaten me, and I concede victory to my great shame and dishonour." A light flashed briefly in his eye which all but Alcott recognised as a distinct danger sign. "Perhaps you could grant me a dying man's last wish?"

Alcott laughed. "Pathetic. I expected more of the great Sherlock Holmes..." He waved a hand carelessly. "Very well, name your terms."

"You _were_ responsible for the death of Jamal, were you not?"

"Indeed I was." Alcott smiled briefly. "He stuck his nose in once too often, I'm afraid. You see, this is what happens when we meddle where we are not wanted, Holmes. Jamal met his maker at my hands, and now it seems only fitting that you should be next - you, your whore, and your crippled friend over there, all following that filthy dog to the grave..."

Alcott was stepping steadily backwards now towards the window of the tower. "Jhasmine?" he called. "Are you alright, my sweet love?"

"Yes." She lifted her head dazedly, blinking and disorientated.

"Look on now, my sweetheart," Alcott said, grinning. "I would not want you to miss this – the death of Sherlock Holmes, London's Greatest Detective..."

Jhasmine foresaw what was about to happen long before Alcott himself did, and she cried out a warning. As the Captain took a final step back towards the window, he stumbled over the figure of Doctor Watson who had dragged himself to a slumped position beneath the sill whilst Alcott and Holmes had been talking. Now and only now did he -with the last of his remaining strength- push up with his uninjured knee just in time to catch Alcott off-balance.

Already unsteady, the back of Alcott's knee caught the window ledge and sent him toppling backwards, arms and legs flailing. It would even have been remotely comical if the situation had not been so serious – Alcott let go of his revolver and made to grab onto something to steady himself, but found that there was nothing for him to grab onto. With a terrible scream, Captain Alcott tumbled through the window frame backwards and out of sight, his revolver falling to the floor inside the tower with a thud.


	24. Surprise, Surprise

"No! Bernard, _no!"_ Jhasmine was on her feet, running for the window as if she was hell-bent on pulling her lover back through the pane to safety. But she was too late, and everyone knew it. Nothing on Earth could save Bernard Alcott now, and it was the shared belief of three out of the four tower occupants that neither God nor Devil would want to fight over who claimed his soul on the Other Side.

Holmes went first to Irene, pulling her in and holding her close to him. She was trembling, but no longer crying. The only sobs that could be heard were those of Jhasmine as she lay crumpled over the window ledge, looking down into the darkness for her lost love.

"A most innovative plan, old boy." Holmes strode over to Watson and helped him to a sitting position. He glanced over the doctor's shoulder to where Jhasmine was still hysterical. "Perhaps it is time to remove the princess..."

Holmes laid an uncharacteristically gentle hand on Jhasmine's shoulder, but she shook him off furiously.

"Get away from me!" Before Holmes could stop her, she had snatched Alcott's lost revolver from the floorboards and was pointing it at Holmes. "You killed him," she screamed. "You killed Bernard, it was your fault!" Her hand was shaking chronically, but Holmes knew that her aim was sure and that she would not miss her target even now. "You waste your time in coming here; I do not have the Sapphire!"

"Then perhaps you'd be so kind as to tell us where it is?" Watson asked, white in the face from pain. His patience with Jhasmine had been somewhat tested after their bout, but he could at least sympathise with her anguish at losing the one she loved.

"Ask her!" With her free hand, Jhasmine pointed accusingly at Irene. "It was taken already before Bernard and I could reach the chamber!" Watson shook his head contemptuously, unimpressed by Jhasmine's feeble attempts to cover her back.

Jhasmine turned tear-filled brown eyes upon Holmes, raising a trembling hand to point at Irene. "She knows where the Sapphire is," she said, still trembling, "But you will never live to find it. You will die now, Mr Holmes... You will pay for what you did to Bernard!" One squeeze of the trigger sent a bullet powering forth from the barrel which hit Holmes squarely in the chest. With a gasp, he staggered backwards and fell to the floor. Irene screamed out and ran to him. Watson turned as best he could, anger and grief temporarily outweighing the pain from his knee, so determined was he to make Jhasmine pay for what she had done. But to his surprise, the princess was lying on her back, perfectly still. A second shot had been fired as Holmes and fallen, and the second bullet had entered its target straight through her forehead.

Sergeant Hawthorne stood in the doorway, holding a still-smoking revolver in his hand. He looked thoroughly shell-shocked, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing.

"Irene?"

"Jim!" Irene was crying again now as she hurled herself almost on top of Holmes and began to thumb his neck desperately, searching for a pulse. "Jim, help us please, he's been hit!"

"Irene, find something to stop the bleeding," Watson shouted as Hawthorne rushed over, already pulling off his jacket to staunch Holmes' wounds as best he could. "You need to stop the bleeding and apply pressure; it's the only thing that will save him!" One thought and one thought only was racing back and forth across Watson's mind – he'd already learned this week that he was to lose his wife, so please not his best friend as well. Watson could feel his eyes stinging with tears at the almost certain loss, and what was worse was the sense of uselessness – to be a doctor but to be unable to help his friend in a time of dire need.

"Hold on, Sherlock, just hold on!" Irene snatched Hawthorne's jacket and pressed it down hard over Holmes' heart, frustrated yet further by the fact that she could not seem to locate the source of the bleeding. "Please, Sherlock," she wept, "Please stay with me!"

"I fully intend to."

Irene gasped in shock as Holmes' eyes fluttered open and he sat up with a deep groan. He ran his hands tentatively over his chest, winced, and then reached inside the breast-pocket of his waistcoat. With a smile of realisation, he drew out the handsome silver brandy flask Irene had given him as a birthday gift whilst on the train to India. Where his initials had once been engraved, there was now an ugly bullet hole, but the bullet itself was apparently still lodged inside the flask's metal casing. Sergeant Hawthorne eyes widened, as though he had seen a ghost.

"Most intriguing..." Holmes ran his hands over the flask before looking complacently up at Watson. "Was it not you, Watson, who once told me that the continued consumption of alcohol was bad for one's health?"

Watson shook his head and laughed shakily, overwhelmed with relief. "Heavens to Betsy, Holmes..."

Irene was not nearly so amused, and slapped Holmes hard across the cheek. But she let her hand linger, so as to show she was not annoyed – merely thankful he was alright.

"So, Sergeant Hawthorne." Holmes eyed the still-spooked young man as he got to his feet. "Did you manage to absorb the finer details of Captain Alcott's confession?"

Hawthorne smiled wanly. "Ah yes, I should have guessed that was for my benefit. I take it you saw me in the doorway and hoped to use Alcott's ignorance of my presence to your advantage?"

"Precisely," said Holmes. "Though I do wish you could have acted a little sooner – i.e. before Jhasmine was able to shoot me. Oh Lord, I think I may have cracked a rib!"

"You're lucky to be alive," Watson said snappily, biting down hard on his lip as he jarred his knee again. "In fact, we'd all most likely be dead by now if not for Sergeant Hawthorne..." He looked over at Hawthorne with a curious expression. "Incidentally, how _did_ you know to look for us here?"

"I came up to your room with a message and happened upon the most peculiar sight," Hawthorne explained, his cheeks not failing to colour slightly as Watson spoke to him. "The room was empty, but the fireplace was hanging open like a doorway!"

Watson -whose task it had been to close and secure the door properly- received a rather reproachful look from Holmes, but allowed the young Sergeant to continue with his tale.

"I followed the passageway to the tower and heard voices from up above," said Hawthorne. He shook his head in disbelief. "Of course, I've always known Alcott was a monster, but I never realised he was a murderer..."

Watson heard the Sergeant's voice waver and realised he was still in mourning for the loss of his friend. This, again, was a situation the doctor could understand.

"Just when did you arrive?" Watson asked gently.

"In time to see Irene knocking the Captain for six with a chair," said Hawthorne with a smile. "I would have entered the fray earlier if your friend hadn't signalled for me to bide my time." He looked over his shoulder at Holmes. "Another case closed, then, detective?"

"Not quite yet, Sergeant..." Holmes appeared lost in thought once again. "Or should that be 'Captain' now?"

Watson and Irene laughed shakily, but Holmes did not. As if tired of waiting for instructions from the detective, Hawthorne bent beside Watson and began to strap his injured knee using strips of fabric torn from Jhasmine's bedspread by Irene. As he worked, Hawthorne tried his hardest not to let his eyes wander to the spot where the body of Princess Jhasmine lay, motionless and staring from the floorboards. He had shot men in combat before, but this was different. To pull the trigger on Jhasmine had been an instantaneous decision and one he was more than capable of making. Nevertheless, the realisation that he had shot a woman -and not just any woman, but a woman of Royal blood- lay heavy on his conscience.

"This place will be crawling with palace guards at any moment," Hawthorne said as he got to his feet, satisfied with his work. "We should get out of sight."

"Can you walk?" Holmes asked Watson, offering his friend a hand to help him up. Watson, however, shook his head slowly.

"Doubtful," he confirmed with a deep sigh. "Go on without me, Holmes – get Irene to safety, and I will make my own way back."

"Out of the question." This came from Hawthorne who was rummaging in the pocket of his uniform trousers for a cigarette case. "No man gets left behind – that is the first rule of combat." He smiled down at Watson. "Don't worry, doctor, we'll get you out, I promise." With a flourish, Hawthorne lit his cigarette and flicked the still-burning match onto the floor before Holmes could stop him. The effect was immediate – flames leapt up at Hawthorne's feet as the oil which coated the floorboards ignited when touched by the match. Hawthorne jumped back, horrified, the bottoms of his trouser legs singed but not quite burning. The flames followed the trail of oil around the room, leaping up at the sodden curtains and setting them alight in addition.

Irene looked from the aghast Hawthorne to wide-eyed Doctor Watson sitting nervously on the floor not far from the flames, and finally to Holmes. The detective stared back calmly.

"Time to go," said he.

Irene leapt for the door, heat searing her back and shoulders as Holmes and Hawthorne positioned themselves on either side of Watson.

"We'll lift on my count," Holmes instructed, wrapping one of Watson's arms around his shoulders and encouraging Hawthorne to do the same. He shot a sardonic glance in Watson's direction, mimicking his doctor's tone. "Don't worry, this won't hurt a bit... Three, two, one, _lift!"_

Watson had expected the pain, but he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out as the weight was lifted from his injured knee and fresh agony leapt up his leg like the flames which were now licking the walls of the tower. The interior decoration was composed almost entirely of varnished wood -quite the design flaw, Watson now realised- and the oil-fuelled flames found it easy to take hold.

Irene held the door open as Holmes and Hawthorne, supporting Watson between them, made for the exit. She was coughing already, her lungs filling with the smoke which was now pouring from the burning furniture into the small tower room, but found herself looking back over her shoulder to where the body of Princess Jhasmine lay trapped amidst a towering inferno of flames.

"Woman!" Holmes cry came from some distance below, and Irene was brought back to life just as the two remaining lamps shattered with the heat and spilt yet more oil onto the floor and onto Jhasmine's dressing table.

Realising that time was running out, Irene hurried from the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind her and racing down the stairs after her companions. By this time, they had almost reached the bottom. Irene slipped ahead and dropped to her knees before where the trapdoor lay. But Hawthorne was shaking his head.

"We'll never get the doctor back down the passageway," he said, wiping his brow with a spare hand. "Head for the courtyard; quickly before the palace guards arrive."

Irene swung the tower door open to expose the courtyard. She stopped still, as if mesmerised by the sight which awaited her - Captain Alcott's body splayed on the tiled floor where he had fallen from the window. It was far from a pleasant sight; though it was some measurable relief to know that he was at last dead and would not be coming back...

Irene looked up to where Holmes and Hawthorne -still carrying Watson between them like a bizzare balancing act- made their way further across the couryard. Not one of them men was paying her the slightest bit of attention... She hesitated only a moment more before she turned on her heel and knelt disgustedly beside the dead Captain's body. A hand slid into his breast pocket, and emerged again, empty.

The small group made stealthy progress across the courtyard, keeping to the shadows so that they would not be seen should a member of Royal Security arrive. Irene caught up quickly and turned the group towards the palace entrance, but Hawthorne seemed to have alternative plans.

"In here," He swung open the gateway which would lead them to the outskirts of the palace gardens, "Quickly."

Away from the heat of the burning tower, the coolness of the night was something of a relief to Irene's flushed skin. She was thankful to see that Hawthorne and Holmes had slowed down now they were out of sight of the palace, and was able to flop down to rest beneath a green fern.

Holmes lowered Watson gently down beside Irene, and the doctor looked up into the night sky where Jhasmine's tower glowed like an ominous yellow beacon as it burned from the inside out. He shook his head in frank disbelief.

"What are the chances of the whole tower going up in flames from a minor spillage of oil?"

"The young Princess' heart was blacker than coal," Holmes said crisply. "And coal is, after all, an excellent source of fuel..."

Getting unsteadily to her feet, Irene approached Sergeant Hawthorne who was stood silent and alone on the edge of the group, looking wistfully up at the burning tower. He felt rather than saw her presence and spoke softly to her.

"Her body will have been blackened and scorched by the flames," he said, looking at Irene with sad fear in his eye. "Do you think they'll still be able to see the bullet hole?"

Irene had no way of answering confidently enough to satisfy her friend. Instead she took his hand and leaned in close so that only he could hear her speak.

"Your secret's safe with us, Jimbo; just as mine is with you..."

* * *

"It has been a case for intellectual deduction." As was his habit, Holmes was puffing away merrily on his pipe as he spoke, incurring many a disapproving glance from Watson. "But when this original intellectual deduction is confirmed by a number of independent incidents, then the subjective becomes the _ob_jective and we can say confidently that we have reached our goal..."

Two days had passed since the confrontation in the tower, and Holmes -along with Irene, Watson and Hawthorne- were addressing the Maharaja's chief advisor in order to explain to him the events leading up to the death of Jhasmine and the burning of the tower.

"The truth is a remarkably simple one," Holmes continued, enjoying as he always did, the moment whereby he would explain his findings to an audience. "His Highness had no way of knowing his daughter was pursuing a love affair with the Captain of the British Guard, for he oversaw not one of their liaison meetings nor noticed the way she reacted to his presence when he entered the room on the night of our arrival in the province...

"As a gift to his lover, Alcott stole the priceless Queen's Sapphire from under the nose of the Royal Family," Holmes continued. "Utilising Jhasmine's skills as a keen marksman, he had her shoot the guards through the window of the antechamber and smashed the locked chamber open himself, making off with the jewel which he would later present to Jhasmine as a token of his affection." He fixed an unblinking gaze upon the silent man before him, indifferent to the fact that he was openly mocking ancient Kashmir policy. "Jhasmine had always desired for the Sapphire to be her own, of course. But her minor status as a female and therefore secondary heir to the throne meant that she would never possess it by conventional means.

"Thus, we come to the final piece in the puzzle – the circumstances under which Her Royal Highness met her demise." Holmes noted that the palace advisor sat up a little straighter at these words, as if this were the section of the conversation he had been waiting to hear. "Not much can be said for how the fire in the tower began, however, I believe it is quite obvious how it ended. Jhasmine and her lover, the nefarious Captain Alcott, were together in the tower when the flames first took hold. Consumed with concern for his own safety, Alcott hurled himself from the tower window, not realising the full extent of the distance between the window and the courtyard below. Jhasmine herself was trapped in the flames, unable to escape as the tower burned." Holmes shook his head, an expression of distaste upon his countenance. "A tragic accident," he said, "But, and accident nonetheless."

The advisor nodded slowly. His English was far from perfect, but he knew enough to make sense of what Holmes was saying.

"The Sapphire," he said at last. "Where will we find it?"

"I'm sure if you search the dead Captain's body, you should find what you're looking for," Irene told him with a smile. The advisor, however, did not return it.

"Searches have already been performed," he said stonily, "But there was no Sapphire."

Irene's face drained momentarily of colour, but before she could recover herself, Holmes had taken up the plate once again.

"My wife is misinformed, I'm afraid," he said smoothly. "The Sapphire was not to be found with its thief, but rather with its recipient – the young Princess. Though it gives me no pleasure to state the fact, the location of the Queen's Sapphire undoubtedly died with Jhasmine..." He turned a gleaming eye upon Irene. "Is that not the truth, darling?"

The advisor had a few minor questions for Holmes, all of which the detective was able to answer with relative ease. When at last he retired to relay the explanation of events to his master, Holmes turned to his three companions. Watson had fashioned a makeshift crutch out of wood from the gardens and was at present totally reliant on it for even the smallest of movements. Nevertheless, he had turned out at Holmes' pre-arranged explanation and now looked back at his friend with a smile.

"Clearly the Maharaja was too busy to listen to your ramblings himself, Holmes..."

"I would say he was still too emotional to attend," Irene said wryly. "Both of his children dead within a week – God knows what that would do to your mind..."

She looked 'round in time to see Hawthorne clap a hand over his mouth. "My God," he said, flushing, "I completely forgot!"

"Forgot what, Captain?" Watson asked, the young man's new title slipping easily off his tongue.

"On the night of the fire, I was on my way to deliver a message to you," Hawthorne explained excitedly, "That's when I discovered the passageway to the princess' tower."

"Well spit it out, man," Holmes said, joining in the banter. "Just what was this message?"

"You might remember I delivered a telegram to you earlier in the week, doctor?" Hawthorne asked. "A telegram sent from London with news of your wife?"

"Yes." Watson's jovial disposition was thrown to the winds with Hawthorne's words. Though he had of course not forgotten Mary, he had at least succeeded in pushing her plight to the very back of his mind for the time being.

"Well..." Hawthorne coloured slightly. "This is rather embarrassing, I must admit... The message was counterfeit."

"What?"

"A plot, I believe, thought up by Alcott in the hope that believing your wife was in danger would draw you away from the case," Hawthorne explained. He frowned apologetically. "I'm sorry, doctor, if I'd remembered, I'd have told you far sooner than this."

"No, no, that's alright..." Watson's voice seemed far away, as if he were not quite focussed. He looked down at Hawthorne with a sudden desperation. "So...So Mary," he said, "Mary is alright?"

"Perfectly," Hawthorne said, nodding. "Unless you've heard otherwise, of course."

"But that's brilliant news!" Irene broke into a grin so wide it could have split her face in two. She threw an arm around Watson and he hugged her back dazedly.

"A cause for celebration indeed," Holmes agreed with a decisive nod.

"Yes, of course." Watson lifted the corner of his mouth in a small smile. "Perhaps later though. Using this crutch has quite worn me out." He stood up suddenly, leaning heavily on his wooden support. "Actually, do you mind if I excuse myself for an hour or so? I think I might take an afternoon nap in the sun..."

After he had left the room, however, Watson did not go the palace gardens after all. Instead he went to his room, lowering himself down into one of the two armchairs. He breathed out an enormous sigh, but did not sit back. He was not entirely sure of how he felt in discovering his fear and sorrow over the last few days had been unfounded. Of course, he was delighted to know that Mary and his children were not in danger, but where exactly did that leave him at present? Though relieved beyond measure at the news Hawthorne had delivered, Watson could not seem to make up his mind what he was feeling. Should he laugh or cry? Smile or howl? Dance with joy or fall to the floor? The answer came to him as his eye was caught by the photograph of himself, Mary and the girls which sat on the table between the two chairs. Pressure built in his chest, and he clamped his teeth together in an effort to suppress the hoots of laughter which threatened to overwhelm him completely. He found tears of joy falling from his eyes as he roared with mirth, but made no attempt to wipe them away. The case; the Sapphire; his injuries – none of them mattered now. None of it mattered because Mary was safe. Mary was not going to die. Finally, at last, it was all over.

Irene, who had followed him from a distance, smiled to herself as she entered her own room, the sound of her friend's laughter echoing down the corridor and through the walls. If anyone deserved a happy ending, it was Doctor Watson...

* * *

"So come on then," Watson said to Holmes as the two of them walked (or in Watson's case, limped) around the palace gardens on the evening of their impending departure from Kashmir. "Tell me – why did you lie to the Maharaja's advisor about the location of the Sapphire?"

"Lie?" Holmes' face bore an expression of incredulity. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh come off it, Holmes!" Watson shook his head disparagingly. "You know exactly where the Sapphire is, do not even _think_ about pretending to me that you don't! Out with it – where is it?"

"Well..." Holmes drew to a halt and reached inside his trouser pocket. There was a gleam of blue as the sunlight caught the beautiful jewel he now held in his hand. "It is, in fact, here!"

There was a long pause. Holmes was unable to gauge his companion's reaction by the expression upon his face. Finally, Watson blinked and shook his head. He was not even slightly surprised.

"Alright then," he said wearily. "Tell me how you got it. I suppose you pickpocketed Captain Alcott during the brawl in the tower?"

"Not exactly," Holmes answered. He handed the Sapphire to his friend so Watson could study it more closely. "I did indeed take the Sapphire from the Captain's breast pocket, but only after his death, and only after it had been placed there by another means than theft." He smiled at the Doctor's apparent confusion. "Really, I _am_ surprised you haven't yet worked it out for yourself, Watson. The truth of this case is not at all relative in its complexity to the length of time it took to solve..."

They had come to rest beneath the shadow of a large palm tree, and Watson lowered himself down onto a rock so as to rest his leg. He grimaced up at Holmes.

"Working it out for myself is too much of an effort at present," he told his friend. "Enlighten me, go on."

"Suit yourself." Holmes clasped his hands behind his back as he always did when he was lecturing. "We made the detrimental mistake of only beginning our search for the Sapphire upon our arrival in India," he said. "Had we began our hunt at an earlier stage in the proceedings, I wager we'd have found it far sooner; perhaps even if we'd performed a thorough search of our compartments on the train..."

Holmes watched the doctor carefully for any signs of realisation. He did not have to wait long – this particular epiphany hit Watson like a freight train.

"Good _Lord_." He shook his head in disbelief, frustrated with himself for not figuring it out sooner. "Irene had the Sapphire the entire time!"

"Indeed she did," Holmes confirmed. "And she would, no doubt, have gotten away with it had Captain Alcott not decided to remove the Sapphire himself mere hours later, leading to the premature discovery that it was missing."

"Convincing the Maharaja she was innocent wouldn't have been a task either, I daresay," Watson added. "Not when Alcott fills the position of a scapegoat so well – they would have believed her word over his any day."

"Particularly with Jamal's influence, I believe," Holmes said. "I'd wager the young prince harboured something of a soft spot for Irene..."

"Well you would know all about that," Watson said mockingly. "When did you find out she had the Sapphire, anyway?"

"On the evening of our arrival in Vienna," Holmes said. "When we stopped for dinner at that restaurant..."

"Brothel."

"_Establishment_..." Holmes cleared his throat before continuing. "...You may remember Irene engaging in conversation with a number of patrons at an opposite table."

"Clients," Watson recapitulated.

"Not so, Watson," Holmes said with his customary half-smile. "In fact they were salesmen, intent upon buying from Irene the beautiful jewel which had just come into her possession."

"She decided not to sell, so they cornered us in a back-alley after supper and attempted to take it by force." Watson nodded. "But how did you know it was there?"

"Because of the beer," Holmes said.

"I don't follow..."

"There was a beer glass upon their table in front of and slightly to the left of Irene," Holmes said. "She had her back turned and the Sapphire hidden, but the glass nevertheless provided the reflection of what she had in her hands at the time – in this case, the missing Queen's Sapphire."

"Why on Earth would she want to sell it?" Watson wondered aloud. "The Queen's Sapphire is priceless..."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed. "Which makes it essentially worthless at the same time. She could never have worn it for a stone of that size would have attracted far too much attention. No, she intended to sell it... Clearly the German salesmen assumed she had underestimated its worth and endeavoured to offer her a price not nearly reflective of its true value."

"You never underestimate Irene Adler," Watson said heavily. "I suppose she offloaded the jewel into Alcott's pockets after our escape from the tower, once she realised the game was up... Which makes this how many times she's outsmarted you, Holmes? Is it the third or the fourth?"

"Outsmarted _me?"_ Holmes shook his head. "I think not. I knew she would wish to dispose of the Sapphire, and Alcott's breast pocket was certainly a logical choice given the circumstances. It was easy for me to slip back into the palace walls later that night and reclaim it. No, I think it is _you_ who has been outsmarted this time, Watson. You would do well to learn from this experience..."

"As you would as well," Watson quipped. "I can't believe she lied, Holmes! After all we've been through for her, on this case and in the past, she couldn't even have the decency to tell us the truth!"

"I suppose a leopard never changes its spots..."

"I wouldn't say that." Watson looked hard at his friend, balancing his elbows on his thighs and resting his chin in his hands. "Very unlike you, I would say – not to hand an adversary over to the proper authorities once the truth was revealed..."

"Correct," Holmes said. "But, to do so would be to betray a confidence. In short, I should be putting a somewhat trivial case of justice served above the well-being of someone who..." He seemed to stumble over the last words. "Someone who...has always...has always held a place in my admiration."

"If that is your way of admitting that you're in love with the woman," Watson asked only half-teasingly, "I never thought I'd live to see the day!"

"I did _not_ say that," Holmes reprimanded hurriedly. "A genius the calibre of Irene Adler does not belong behind bars, Watson. She would rot, and what a waste that would be, truly..."

"So what will you do with the Sapphire now?" Watson asked. "Since you can't risk handing it back to the Maharaja without your story being jeapordised...? And who's to say she won't try to take it again once the fuss has died down?"

"I have, of course, considered both of those eventualities," Holmes said, taking back the Sapphire from Watson and tossing it gently in his palm. "I think that the patrons of the NSPSS would be most interested to receive this particular stone through postal order," he said. "One jewel, at least, should be safe from the clutches of Irene Adler..."

Watson breathed out a long sigh and stretched his arms above his head.

"And to think I was going to introduce her to Mary!" He looked over at Holmes, for the detective had already begun his journey back to the palace and was disappearing swiftly from sight behind a clump of bushes, apparently content to go alone rather than wait for his crippled companion to catch up. "So is that it?" he called after Holmes. "Is the case officially closed?"

Holmes' voice caught the afternoon breeze and brought his words back to the doctor.

"Not _quite_ yet, Watson..."

**Author's Note: So there you have it! :D This story isn't over yet, though...there's still a few chapters left to go by my count. I really hope this ending lived up to everyone's hopes...I just couldn't bring myself to kill off Mary, even though (as many of you have rightfully pointed out) she was killed off in the original stories. Hope you enjoyed this latest installment...Will be updating again ASAP :D **


	25. Goodbye so Soon

**Author's Note: I realise I've managed to cram what would have otherwise been four or five chapters of train travel high jinks with Holmes, Irene and Watson into one, but I thought that the train thing had probably run its course. As for the chapter name, those of you who have seen (and this is how incredibly cool I am :P) The Great Mouse Detective (animated Disney FTW) will understand the reference :) As always, thank you for reading/reviewing..it's very much appreciated! :D**

* * *

The next morning, Watson awoke with a restored sense of contentment and well-being he had not felt in weeks. He opened his eyes slowly, lethargically, as if he had all the time in the world. He saw no need to rise in a hurry – his trunk and portmanteau, already packed the previous night, lay at the end of the bed in preparation for their departure.

When at last Watson roused himself to wash and dress, he did so with a loping indolence; pondering longer than usual over what he should wear and how he should wear it. Dressing was no easy task at present, what with one leg completely out of use. Using the crutch for support, he fetched his chosen garments from the armoire and returned to the bed to sit down. Dressing from the waist upwards was easiest, this requiring the use of only his arms, and so his shirt went on first with the buttons fastened and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The application of his suit trousers was a rather painful experience – the material just would not slide over his leg easily, necessitating the movement of the knee. Thus, Watson had learned to get the process over and done with as quickly as possible.

He hissed as the ligaments strained, but the pain was gone as soon as it had come. He pulled on first one sock and then the other with equal delicate care. Then came his shoes, and at last Watson was ready for breakfast.

Limping slowly down the corridor, he knocked twice on Irene and Holmes' door.

"Breakfast?" He peered around the doorframe into the room where, through a cloud of cigarette fumes, Holmes could be glimpsed sitting in the armchair, pipe in his mouth.

"Ohhh must I?" Holmes asked, petulant as always. "Digestion is such a futile process..."

"Yes, Holmes, you must." Watson hobbled into the room and pulled open the shutters. The sound of his friend's objectionable moans was music to his ears – it was almost like old times! "There's a big day ahead, so let's make the most of our last Indian breakfast, shall we?"

Ten minutes later, a dishevelled Holmes was dragged under much protest to breakfast in the palace hall by his best friend.

"You know, I'm going to miss this," Watson said with his mouth full as he and Holmes sat breakfasting around the table.

"What?"

"This fruit." Watson pointed with his fork to a bright yellow, green-skinned singularity which sat upon his plate. "Simply delicious. I wish that it was available at home...It's quite remarkable!"

"Watson, you're beside yourself." Holmes set down his own fork, with which he had been idly pushing a piece of bread around his plate for some minutes. "What exactly has prompted this frankly sickening cheerfulness?"

"I'm tired of India, beautiful and mysterious as it is," Watson said. "I want to step over the threshold of my own house; to hold my daughters; to kiss my wife; to treat my patients..." He smiled. "What can I say, Holmes? We're returning home – I'm happy."

"Well I do hope it's not contagious."

"There's a bee in your bonnet," Watson commented, taking another piece of fruit and cutting off the skin with his knife. "Come on, I haven't got all day. What's on your mind now?"

Holmes did not answer, and Watson nodded somewhat understandingly, realising his mistake.

"Of course. There's nothing on your mind at all, that's the problem, isn't it? Old cases end, Holmes, but then new cases crop up and so begins the cycle again." He swallowed a final mouthful of fruit and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "You really shouldn't let it frustrate you so when the case has run its course."

In actual fact, Watson's assumption that Holmes' insipidness of the mind was due to lack of stimulus could not have been further from the truth. There was something big and ominous clouding the detective's ordinarily agile intellect today – a detail of the Queen's Sapphire Case he had yet to resolve completely. The truth of the matter was shockingly clear to Holmes, but oh how he wished that that there was an alternative explanation. Tact had never been a concept Holmes was well-versed in, but he knew that there was a time and a place to discuss such suspicions (and frankly, such fears) with the one whom they concerned. In short, he would wait until the time was right before confronting Irene. Only then would he be given the answer he was searching for.

Later, once Watson was satisfied himself and had finally given up hope of encouraging Holmes to eat anything at all, the pair made their way up to their lodgings, aware that this was possibly the last time they would be doing so. Holmes, of course, had not even begun to pack up his belongings, and so the doctor insisted they start at once.

Under Watson's vigilant eye, Holmes gathered up his clothes, books and belongings from around the room and threw them onto the bed. Watson folded every garment and placed it into the suitcase, and within an hour they were done.

"We have..." Watson took out his pocket watch and studied the hands for a few seconds. "...Approximately an hour before we need to start making our way back towards the train station. Don't forget it's going to be a long journey back, so wear breathable clothes."

"Yes, of course."

"And for goodness sake, make yourself presentable."

"As you wish, Mother."

"Only I'm sure the elephants are looking forward to seeing you!" Watson grinned, enjoying the way Holmes' smug expression straightened out with his words, giving way to one of affronted distaste.

"Anyhow, I think I'll attempt an amble around the gardens before we have to head off." Leaning heavily on his crutch, Watson hoisted himself off the bed and used his free hand to straighten his suit. He may have been an invalid, but that was no excuse for untidiness. "Would you care to join me?" He looked up, but Holmes had already settled himself into his armchair and taken out his pipe. Without a glance towards his friend, the detective pulled out a white handkerchief (bizarrely embroidered with a set of entwined pink initials) and placed it over his eyes.

"Right." Watson rolled his eyes and threw open the door. "Of course, I'll go by myself, don't worry yourself, you stay right there and relax."

"If you insist..." The first plumes of tobacco smoke wafted up from Holmes' pipe as Watson shut the door in his wake. As he limped leisurely through the trees and bushes in the palace gardens, he felt his mind wandering towards thoughts of his brooding friend. Experience had told him, however, that it was both useless and a waste of his time to get involved. When Holmes had got to the bottom of this latest quandary, Watson was confident he would learn about it in time. He brought his thoughts back to Mary, Rose and Tilly back home in London. Looking around him, Watson realised that as beautiful as the Kashmir gardens were, he had never before been more anxious to return home.

And just a mere forty minutes later, he was preparing to do just that. As Watson was in no fit state to drag the luggage cart as he had been forced to do on their arrival, the newly-appointed Captain Hawthorne and three of his men aided in the transportation of the trunks and cases which contained all of the three guest's belongings. Watson was pleased to note that no projectiles were hurled in their wake this time around. In fact, they did not see any locals whatsoever as they made their way through the small village and to the outskirts where the same barefoot Indian man was waiting with what appeared to be the same elephants by his side.

"The villagers are in mourning," Hawthorne explained. "Two members of the Royal Family have passed away this week, and tradition calls for a significant period of remembrance."

When the carts came to rest, Hawthorne bent at the spine and helped his men to offload the trunks which would be strapped to the back of the elephants for transportation. "It really has been a pleasure having you all here," he said with an easy smile, straightening up. "I fear I've rather become used to your presence – it will be strange for a while without you." He clicked his teeth in frustration as one of the junior officers danced a jig for the amusement of his friends up on the now empty luggage cart. "When you're _quite_ finished, Callaghan!"

"I think you're going to have your hands full, Captain." Watson grinned, offering Hawthorne a hand which the latter took and pumped firmly with only a slight blush. "A few weeks of back-breaking responsibility and you'll scarcely notice we're gone!"

"I've inherited a circus," Hawthorne said with a wry smile, shaking his head in the direction of his men. "That said, it's nothing a spot of manual work won't sort out. I hear there are some floors in the palace in need of a good scrub..."

"I take it you will be adopting a rather different control policy to that of your predecessor?" Holmes enquired, second in line for a handshake from the new Captain.

"I plan to begin cooperative negotiations with the Maharaja as soon as the mourning period is over," Hawthorne answered. "Things are going to be very different around here from now on; you can count on that, Mr Holmes."

"I am glad to hear it."

"The Empire will be far from pleased, I suppose," Hawthorne said with a mischievous grin, "But what Her Majesty is not informed of won't cause her any harm..."

"You're going to do great things here, Jimbo." Irene gave Hawthorne her hand to kiss before pulling him into a tight embrace. "I'm just sorry I won't be here to see them."

"I feel sure we'll meet again," Hawthorne said. He looked over his shoulder to Holmes. "Look after her, Mr Holmes. Though I am quite sure she's capable of looking after herself!"

"You'd better believe it." Irene was hoisted onto her elephant, unable to conceal her smile at the pained expression upon the countenance of Holmes. It was clear to all present that this was the part of the journey he had been dreading.

Irene felt a pang of sadness coarse through her veins as the elephant shuddered beneath her and began its first plodding steps away from Hawthorne and his men who still stood grouped by the edge of the village to wave them off. The new Captain had been a great friend to her; her rock when nobody else was on hand to help. Leaving him was proving to be more difficult than she had first anticipated, but she would not let it show of course. Hawthorne held secrets of hers which could decimate the progression of what was already an unstable relationship between herself and Holmes. Although she had a nasty feeling he would already have worked out the truth for himself, she was determined that they would not discuss it. For this reason alone, she was glad to be leaving Hawthorne behind. The further away he was, the less likely it was that Holmes would procure key information from the young Captain. With its brothers by its side, Irene's elephant began the arduous journey through the jungle, carrying its beautiful passenger with care towards an uncertain future. What would follow would be pleasant enough, she assured herself; just so long as Holmes remained in the dark...

* * *

There followed the longest and arguably the hardest two weeks of Watson's life. His return to England, home, wife and daughters could not come quick enough, and once or twice he had to suppress the urge to go to the front of the train and harass the driver, despite the fact that he knew his doing so was unlikely to make the journey pass any quicker.

Holmes was no help of course, preferring instead to remain in the smoking room amidst an ever-present smog of tobacco fumes, or else locked in his room with a stash of Watson's surgical chemicals beneath his mattress which he thought the doctor did not know about.

"There's something on his mind," Watson remarked to Irene as they breakfasted together one morning. The train was speeding briskly through North-Eastern Bulgaria and Watson's good mood had been restored, safe in the knowledge that the longest part of their journey was drawing to a close. "It's anybody's guess what it is I'm afraid."

Irene nodded but did not speak. She appeared to be far away in mind, and Watson noticed her silence with apt concern for her wellbeing. "Irene, is everything alright?" he asked.

"Never better, doc." She grinned, though it lacked its usual sparkle. "Guess I'm just looking forward to being home; well, back in England anyway..."

She bit resolutely into a second slice of toast as if this ended their conversation. Watson, however, was unconvinced by her excuses. He himself was greatly anticipating their return to London, but felt that _his_ temperament under the circumstances was far brighter than his American friend's.

Watson took up his crutch from beside his chair and heaved himself up, wincing slightly as the still damaged muscles behind his knee contracted. He laid a hand on the still-sitting Irene's shoulder.

"You know where I am if you need my assistance."

"If I ever need a door kicked in, I'll be sure to defer to your expertise."

* * *

Little more than a fortnight had passed before Watson finally heard the sound he had been waiting for – the gentle thud of the train's buffers meeting the end of the track at Victoria Station in London. A wave of relief washed over him with the realisation that he was at last home, mere miles away from his beloved wife and daughters.

"Welcome home, doc." Watson turned his head to find Irene at his shoulder, smiling mischievously and dressed modestly in a navy blue skirt and matching jacket.

"I've missed it." Watson, the gentleman that he was, took Irene's handheld bag from her. He was still not able to move far without the crutch, but was satisfied with the rate of healing so far. Testing his weight on the injured knee and finding that it did not cause him too much pain, he stepped down from the train onto the platform, closely followed by Irene. Holmes emerged a minute later looking as though he had only just woken up, despite the fact that it was getting on for a quarter to nine at night.

A long and awkward silence followed – Irene and Holmes, though they had shared a room for the duration of the journey, had barely spoken since they had left India.

"Well," Watson said finally, clearing his throat and turning to Irene. "It's been a great pleasure to have got to know you properly over the past month, Miss Adler." He caught Holmes' eye and added – "I assume it _is_ Miss Adler now we are back, unless you two have a happy announcement you'd care to make..?"

"Just 'Irene' will do fine," she said, laughing as she pulled Watson into a light hug. "Goodbye, doctor. It's been fun; I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

"How soon is 'soon'?" Watson asked, watching as his bags were loaded onto a waiting cab. He was unsure of how long it would be before he was ready to handle another dose of Irene Adler quite as potent as the one he had recently experienced.

"Sooner than you think." Irene kissed Watson's cheek in a friendly manner, smiling as he flushed with flattery.

"I'll be seeing you soon I imagine old chap." Watson gave Holmes a pat on the back. "The next case awaits; you will let me know if there's anything I can do..?"

"Naturally." Holmes nodded. "Always a pleasure to work with you Watson." They shook hands, formal as always though they had been friends for years.

With a final nod and smile for Irene, Watson hoisted himself into the cab and pulled the door shut.

"Cavendish Place, please. As quick as you can."

In a clatter of hooves and harnesses, the two horses at the front of the cart pulled tight against their bits and hoisted the cab off along the street.

Holmes and Irene were left alone together outside the station, and both knew without a doubt that Watson had left in a hurry deliberately. He seemed determined to see them speaking again, and although they had never told him as much, Holmes suspected the discerning doctor had guessed all of what had happened in their room on _that_ night...

Before either could speak however, a cab driver who had been at the end of the street when Irene had waved brought his horses to a stop before the station and bade Irene climb aboard. Holmes looked as though he was about to speak but thought better of it.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Irene said finally, uneasily. "I'm...Indebted to you. Again." She managed a smile. "You saved my life..._and_ cleared my name!"

"In a sense."

Irene was taken aback at his words, but she worked it out eventually. "Well you got there in the end," she said, somewhat embarrassed. As embarrassed as Irene Adler was capable of feeling – she was in reality rather sore that Holmes had kept the Sapphire from her, especially after all the effort it had required of her to take it...

Her trunks now fully loaded and her departure imminent, it occurred to Irene that she was once again about to walk away from Sherlock Holmes with no promises of another association in the near future. There was so much she wanted to say, yet so little she knew how to put into words.

"Goodbye," she said finally, smiling softly. "And good luck, Sherlock." She would have liked to kiss him, but something in his eyes stopped her. His judicious, mistrustful expression bore into her like the sun's rays and she was forced to look away. This was not about the Sapphire, this was something more, but she could not bring herself to speak. Instead she patted his chest with both palms and turned her back.

"Irene..."

She heard him well enough but did not turn around. There was nothing more to say. She waited until the cab was out of sight of the station before she allowed the first tears to fall...


	26. Home is Where the Heart is

**Author's Note: God. I'm sorry it's taken me so very long to update this, but I've been buried up to my waist in GCSE revision :( Now onto my 5th out of 12 exams, so please bear with me where updates are concerned until the exams are over. Countdown to the 28th June! :D Anyhooooo, enjoy the chapter...some pretty heavy stuff going on as you will discover, but fingers crossed it'll still make a good read :) **

* * *

Not even Watson's injured knee could keep him from hurrying as fast as he could up the front stairs of his house when the cab finally pulled up in Cavendish Place a short while later. Even the click of the lock sounded wonderfully familiar as he slid his key inside and swung the door open.

No sooner had he let it swing shut behind him, a scurry of feet upon the marble tiled corridor announced the arrival of Elizabeth – the Watson's cook and housekeeper.

"Why, Doctor Watson!" Elizabeth raised her hands above her head, astonished. "What a surprise this is, we were told not to expect you home for another two days at least!"

Watson had of course informed Mary in his letters that the duration of the case would be two weeks plus travel time, but nobody's estimate of their arrival home could have been exactly accurate.

"Yes, we do seem to be ahead of schedule," Watson said with a smile, removing his jacket and allowing the attentive Elizabeth to take it from him. The housekeeper nodded diplomatically.

"If I might be so bold as to say, sir, you have been greatly missed these past few weeks."

"It certainly is good to be back." Watson took off his hat and balanced it comically on the end of the stair rail. He looked up at Elizabeth who was busy tucking a stray curl of hair back into its chignon. "Where _is_ Mary?"

"I filled the bathtub for her not ten minutes ago, sir," Elizabeth answered. "I shouldn't imagine she'll be done just yet."

"And Tilly and Rose – are they asleep yet?" Watson noted the late hour as his eye was caught by the hall clock.

"Jemima is settling them now, I believe." Jemima was the young nursery maid who looked after the girls at nighttime so their parents could sleep.

Elizabeth's sharp eyes had settled upon Watson's makeshift crutch and grown wide.

"My goodness, Doctor, what _have_ you done to your leg?"

"An old war injury," said Watson with a wry smile. "Years have passed but it haunts me still. That said..." He set down his crutch and gripped the banister tightly. "...I think I have rested it more than enough of late."

"Just mind you don't yourself more damage," Elizabeth reproved, taking up the crutch and moving it safely out of harm's way. "Will you be wanting a spot of supper before bed, Doctor? Perhaps a nightcap?" She smiled. "Take some pain off that leg of yours..."

"No...No thank you." Watson shook his head. "I think I'll just head up, I'm feeling quite weary. Don't wait up, Elizabeth; I'm sure you've had a long day."

"Very good, Doctor." Elizabeth nodded her head graciously. "Thank you, sir...good night."

Watson gave her a friendly smile and started up the stairs. He could hear the water in the tub splashing on the floor above and realised that Mary was still bathing. So, he stopped on the first floor of their townhouse where the nursery was located, deciding to leave Mary alone for the time being. He would see her later, but first he would look in on his daughters.

When Watson opened the door of the nursery and peered in, he had to smile at the chaos: Poor Jemima had her hands full bouncing a wailing Rose on one hip whilst simultaneously trying to console Tilly. The latter had pulled herself into a standing position in her crib and was, like her sister, red in the face from screaming. Despite the raucous noise, Watson felt a soothing wave wash over him as he took in the sight, smell (and sound of course) of his presently irritable brood.

"Can I be of assistance, Jemima?"

At the sound of Watson's voice, the young woman jumped a few inches into the air, still clutching baby Rose to her chest. She looked around, and when she saw the doctor in the doorway, breathed out what appeared to be a sigh of intense relief.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, you gave me quite a fright!"

"I didn't mean to startle you," Watson said, limping into the room, "I just thought that I might be able to lend a hand." He held out his arms, indicating the still howling Rose. "Here, let me have her for a minute..."

Jemima handed the baby over and Watson smiled as she nestled into his arms.

"There now, darling, don't cry..." Watson rocked his daughter gently, feeling rather pleased as her cries slowed to whimpers and finally to nothing more than the occasional sniff. Jemima meanwhile had taken up Tilly and was rocking her gently, mimicking Watson's technique until the second twin had quietened too.

"That should do it..." Watson moved to place Rose in her cradle, but the baby realised his intention and broke forth into a fresh wave of screams. Spurred on by her dominant twin sister, Tilly began to wail once again also, her tiny mouth stretched into a puckered 'O' of anguish.

"It takes me such ages to get them to sleep nowadays," Jemima said with a hint of fatigue. "I wish I knew how to settle them quickly. I feel as though I'm not doing my job properly, sir..."

Watson stood still and thought for a moment, the piercing screams of his daughters not hampering his logic. "I'll tell you what we could try," he said finally, resolutely laying Rose in her cradle, seemingly oblivious to her howls of protest, and then held his arms out to receive Tilly from her nurse. "The girls are sisters, of course," he said to Jemima, kissing Tilly's little head and breathing in the smell of milk and talcum so often associated with babies, "But they are also twins. It's thought, by some, that twins share a bond ordinary siblings can never understand."Watson lowered the bawling Tilly into the crib beside her sister. "Perhaps they can be of comfort to each other until morning..."

Sure enough, and no sooner had Tilly been placed into Rose's crib, the screams began to fade. Watson broke into a smile as his daughters watched each other intently. Though they were still small, he knew that they recognised each other immediately. He stood perfectly still and watched the girls until, drowsy from screaming, they slipped gently off to sleep within seconds of each other; Rose first and then Tilly just behind.

"Make sure they are put in separate cribs before you go, Jemima." Watson smiled to the young maid, looking up from stroking and kissing each of his daughter's heads in turn.

"Of course, sir." Jemima nodded. "Whatever made you think to put them in one crib together, sir?"

Watson considered.

"When times are hard," he said sombrely, "It is a great comfort to have someone with you on whom you can thoroughly rely..."

As he bid Jemima goodnight and started up the stairs to find Mary, Watson thought with a smile about the truth behind his words; the man who had said them originally; and coincidentally the man whom Watson had been thinking of when he'd spoken himself. He and Holmes would always have their difficulties, but there was no escaping the fact that the detective had saved Watson's life whilst they were in India, and for that the doctor was eternally grateful. When the new baby was born, Watson decided, there would be no question of who would be assuming the role of godfather, no matter what Mary might have to say on the matter...

Almost half an hour previously and just a short distance across London, Sherlock Holmes had arrived home to find that Mrs Hudson, the landlady, had already left for the night. With no footman to assist him, Holmes had been loath to drag his heavy trunk up the staircase alone, and so had simply abandoned it in the downstairs hallway. Perhaps Watson would help to shift it when he next visited...

As a rule, Mrs Hudson's presence ensured that the interior of 221b Baker Street -with its polished floors and William Morris wallpapered panels- remained clean and tidy for its chief occupant and his guests. However, it was clear that she had not taken the same care when attending to Holmes' personal quarters. In fact, judging by the dust which lay even heavier than usual upon the tables and desks, Holmes guessed that she had not so much as entered the room at all in his absence. Not that he could blame her – a woman who lacked basic dexterity quite to the extent of poor Mrs Hudson would have been in mortal peril had she touched a great deal of the things in Holmes' rooms!

Holmes slipped off his waistcoat as he entered the room and tossed it toward a chair which stood by the fireplace. The waistcoat missed the chair completely, landing creased on the floor a good fifty centimetres short of its target. Holmes froze, struck by a sudden thought – He threw his waistcoat from the doorway to the chair every night, but never once before had he missed. Was he losing his touch? _Impossible_. Had he, then, thrown the garment with more force than usual? _Improbable._ Or, as Holmes now realised to be the most engaging of all the options, the chair had been moved half a metre further away from the door.

Holmes ran a finger over the mantelpiece. As he had before suspected, Mrs Hudson had not been in the room for the past six weeks, let alone rearranged the furniture. Assuming the chair had not moved itself, someone had been in his room; someone unwelcome. But who?

The answer should have been obvious to Holmes, but it did not hit him until he took a deep breath in and caught the tiniest hint of a familiar perfume in the air. He cleared his throat loudly, certain that even though he could not see her, she would have no difficulty in hearing him.

"You can come out now..."

She had been hiding in the shadows, between a brass music stand the window. He heard it shifting along the floorboards as she revealed herself and turned slowly, searching for her in the darkness of the room. She was closer to him than he had realised -a mere arm's length away- and dressed in the same demure navy blue coat, skirt and hat she had worn on the train. It occurred to Holmes, as he met her eyes for the first time, that he had not spoken to her properly since the night they had succumbed to each other and made love. She was beautiful, he thought suddenly; so very beautiful, but it had taken him far too long to see it. His eyes bored into her now, scorching her, searching her, questioning silently what she was doing in his rooms; not to mention how in the name of God she had got in!

"I knew it," he said softly, finally.

"You knew what?"

"That you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."

There was a long gap of silence before Holmes solemnly lifted his arm and held it out to her. She fell against him, hands fisted in his hair, pulling his lips roughly, yet tenderly down to meet hers. It was a rite of passage now; a necessity of their meeting. They had not touched or even spoken in what felt like a forever, and Irene had craved him like a drug ever since. She attacked his neck with her lips now, leaving no mark but simply ghosting the skin as if she were marking him for her eyes only.

Holmes' hands found the buttons on her navy-blue jacket and began to pop them open one-by-one, silently suppressing the urge to rip it carelessly from her body to reach the warmth of her skin beneath. He was on autopilot now, allowing his body to work without instruction whilst his brain was engaged elsewhere:

There was no sense in denying the fact that his indifference since their liaison had little to do with regret. In truth, Holmes had been avoiding Irene for so long because he could not bring himself to admit that he longed to hold her just one more time; hear the difference in her breathing as lustful gasps built to a crescendo within her chest; feel the way her muscles seemed to tighten and tremble all at once whilst he marvelled in the knowledge that it was him making her feel this way.

Whatever the case, it had reached the point at which Sherlock Holmes could do nothing but accept the one simple fact which had been plaguing him for years – he could easily cut Irene from his life once more as he had many times in the past... Only now, he found that he no longer wanted to. Instead, he wanted her in his life. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go; to tell her that all the horrors of the past months were over now; that he would do everything in his power to protect her; that he..._loved_ her, and would continue to love her because there had never been a woman -any woman- for Sherlock Holmes other than Irene Adler.

With a final gargantuan effort, Holmes shut off his brain and placed every ounce of his focus into clasping Irene tightly to him and deepening the slow kiss they had been sharing. As he pulled her down onto a rug in the centre of his room (miraculously not covered with dust and general rubbish), he breathed in the scent of the gorgeous woman above him and wondered what the night would bring them.

The two Watsons lay side-by-side on top of the bedclothes, their clothes in similar states of disarray and their arms wrapped tightly around each other. Mary's head was resting on her husband's chest; the top two buttons of his shirt were undone and his tie abandoned in a corner of the room.

"I can't believe how brown you are," Mary observed, trailing a finger over Watson's cheek with a smile.

"And _I_ can't believe how big _you_ are!" Watson moved a hand over Mary's stomach and rubbed it gently. "How have your examinations been going?"

Mary smiled at her husband's expression. "Very well, you shouldn't worry."

"Will you let me perform one now? It's better to be safe than sorry with these trainee doctors..." Watson swung his legs over the side of the bed in a businesslike manner, but Mary caught his arm and pulled him gently back towards her.

"Later," she said softly. "Right now, I would like to be with my husband." She lowered her hand so it sat suggestively on the inside of Watson's thigh, but he did not respond. On the contrary, he lay very still and quiet, totally oblivious to his wife's advances until she realised his hesitation and looked up.

"John? Darling, what's the matter?"

"I thought I would lose you," Watson said quietly – so quietly, in fact, that Mary could scarcely hear him speak. "I thought I would come home to find you dead and the girls too."

"I know." She raised a hand and stroked his hair gently, soothingly. Not half an hour earlier, Watson had explained to her the turn of events the case had taken. "I can't imagine what you went through, so far away and all on your own..." She smiled slightly. "Well, with Holmes of course."

"It was agonising," Watson agreed. "The thought of losing you, Tilly _or_ Rose tears me apart inside. You are so precious to me, Mary." He took her hand and squeezed it as though he never wanted to let go, and really he never did. "Please, I just want to hold you." He sighed uncomfortably. "I realise how stupid it sounds, but I need to know that you're alright...I need to know for certain that you're here with me."

"John..." Mary was struck with remorse, not knowing which line she should take whilst dealing with her damaged husband. "John, I _am_ right here and I always will be." She lowered her hand again, stroking up and down the inside seam of his trouser-leg. "I don't...know how I can make you realise that everything is going to be alright, but at least let me try to help you..." Her hand was insistent, and when it came down to it, her husband had little choice.

Watson closed his eyes briefly and let out a deep sigh. "Mary..." He shook his head resignedly before cupping her cheek with one hand and pulling her towards him. He kissed her hand and each finger in turn but did not go further, completely contented just to hold her close and know she was safe in his arms. It was Mary herself who took the initiative – pulling herself up on her husband and pressing her lips to his neck, for she was sure he would not object. She knew exactly where his most sensitive spots were, and so paid them particular attention until he responded – strong hands frisking over her curves and turning her gently on her back so he lay over her.

They made love more than once that night, but each time with as much care and affection as the last. When finally they were content just to lie wrapped in each other's arms beneath the bedcovers, they began to talk about Watson's most recent adventure.

"Did you realise that your chest and legs are a different colour to your face?" Mary teased, rubbing her foot provocatively up and down the back of Watson's calf.

"I did." Watson smiled and gave her an extra-tight squeeze. "One downside to the Indian climate, I'm afraid."

"And the knee?" Mary pressed. "Am I to assume such injuries are also common in the Indian Climate? Or just when your friend Mr Holmes is nearby?"

At this, Watson laughed. "The latter, I think." He bent and straightened the problem knee tentatively, ever wary of causing more damage. "Still, it seems to be making a good recovery..." They lay, silent, in the dim half-light of their bedroom with only the sound of the hall clock and their own breathing to break the air. After a minute or so, Watson found his hands wandering down beneath the covers to rest innocently over the now fairly prominent bulge which was his unborn child.

"What are you thinking of?" Mary asked fondly, turning her azure eyes upon her husband.

"Names for the baby," Watson answered thoughtfully.

"Such as...?" One side of Mary's mouth rose in an amused smile.

"For a girl..." Watson cleared his throat, "Julia."

"Lord, no." Mary looked horrified. "Good grief, John, I was hoping for a _sensible_ suggestion at least!"

"And might I ask what your contribution is?"

Mary considered. "'Alice'," she said at last. "After my mother."

"Oh must we name her for your mother?" Watson had never seen eye-to-eye with his rather puritanical mother in-law...

"Fine. Angela?"

"Too pretentious."

"Florence?"

"After the city?" Watson shook his head with a smile. "Too _Italian_!"

Mary shook her head, remembering the trouble they had experienced arguing over names for the twins a year or so earlier. "Annabelle?"

Watson grimaced, apparently believing this latest suggestion did not even deserve a vocal response.

"What about Pearl? Or Agnes?"

Watson raised an eyebrow. "The last I checked, Mary, you were giving birth to a baby, not to an eighty year-old woman!"

"Do you have a suggestion?"

Watson's mind was blank as a slate until he recalled a conversation of this very same nature he had shared with Holmes during the train journey from India. Amongst the detective's many ludicrous suggestions, there had been one -of French origin- which had appealed to him...

"Esme," Watson said, testing the way in which it sounded. "Esme," he said again with more conviction. "What do you think?"

"Esme..." Mary nodded. "Unusual... But I like it." She leaned in and gave Watson a quick kiss on the end of his nose, trying not to think about having to begin the fight again with potential names for boys...

They never _had_ made it to the bed.

Beneath a moth-eaten woollen rug, Irene and Holmes lay next to each other on the floor of 221b Baker Street, still partially wrapped in each other's arms. Their respective clothes lay, forgotten, in a pile by the door.

Irene was warm and content to lie with one of her arms draped lazily across Holmes' bare stomach. It was pitch black now, but she could tell that he was staring at the ceiling, unmoving save for the autonomous rise and fall of his chest. He stirred suddenly, necessitating the movement of Irene's arm and spoke quietly into the darkness, though still loud enough for her to hear him:

"Is there something you'd like to share with me...?"

Irene's happiness evaporated in the same instant as a large lump materialised inside her throat. She began to twist her fingers together, knowing that this would only suggest further to Holmes that she had something to hide. The secret she was keeping was tearing her up inside, yet the thought of telling Holmes the truth made her heart feel like it was being squeezed; tighter and tighter, invisible hands wrapping themselves around her vital organs until they exploded in a cacophony of pain and upset. But worse still was the thought of keeping her story to herself forever; there was no doubt in Irene's mind that she would not survive much longer without a total emotional breakdown. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to come clean. After all, she reasoned with extreme reluctance, if she was to bear her scars to anybody, her first preference would be Sherlock Holmes...

"What is it you want to know?" She would play for time if she could.

"The truth." His knew her game, realised her reluctance to speak, but only felt spurred by her lack of enthusiasm. It was high time the truth was revealed, for Irene's sake and for the closure of what had proved to be one of the most interesting and deeply personal cases Holmes had tackled in years.

_The truth_. Not a subject Irene was familiar addressing, but one she knew it was time to reacquaint herself with. Taking a deep breath inwards, Irene began to speak...

_Autumn in Kashmir was as stifling as the summer, Irene observed, though the sun was prone to set far sooner. She had spent an enjoyable day by the river – it was Jim's day off and the two had gone down to the riverbank for a gentle stroll in the afternoon sun before both were required to return: Irene to the palace for supper, and Jim to a mountain of administrative work at the Guard Post. Jamal had been unable to join them, but had promised to catch up when his royal duties had abated enough to leave him with time for social visits. _

_Thus, Irene was left alone in her bedchamber after a satisfying supper, and was just falling into a lazy slumber in her armchair when a knock at the door shook her awake once more. _

"_Jim?" She called out, stumbling from her chair to the door, still half-asleep. "Jimbo, is that you?" _

"_Regrettably not, Miss Adler..." Irene swung the door open to see not the smiling face of her friend looking back, but that of Captain Alcott. He _was_ smiling, it was true, but not pleasantly, and Irene could not help but wonder what his intentions were. _

"_It's ten at night, Alcott." Try as she might, Irene did not like the arrogant Captain of the Guard and found it difficult at the best of times to muster up some measure of respect for the man. Late at night when he had roused her from sleep, it was even more difficult! "What is it you want?" _

_Far from being irritated by her attitude, Alcott's smile spread out yet further into the contours of his cheeks. "Rudeness is unlikely to get you anywhere or anything." He strode into the room without being invited, much to Irene's annoyance. "Did your mother never tell you that?"_

"_My mother told me lots of things," Irene answered heatedly, "Including how best to deal with scumbags like you. Now tell me what you want, and then get the hell out of my room so I can sleep!" _

_Alcott's smile never faltered, though Irene would have sworn she saw his eyes flash, if only for a moment. "Why you wear that silly frown, Miss Irene?" Irene felt a pang of fury as she realised he was attempting to mimic the voice of Jamal. "What a beauty you would be if only you smiled." He had moved closer to her, Irene noticed, and although every nerve in her body was screaming at her to move away, she found herself unable to do so. It was as if she were frozen completely to the spot. "Truly you'd be a woman I'd desire..." He raised a hand and stroked it down Irene's cheek. Perhaps he had meant it to be affectionate, but to Irene it was as if he were scraping a razorblade across her skin. She slapped his hand away and prepared to follow it up with a barrage of assault, but he was both too quick and too strong. Alcott had hold of both of her wrists, holding them tightly so she could make no fruitful attempt at an escape._

"_So striking, yet so vulnerable I feel." He sighed deeply, as if with a mocking regret. "Both defining factors will make this easier for me, far easier..." _

_Only when Alcott had twisted her hands behind her back and pushed her roughly down onto the four-poster bed did Irene realise the trouble she was in and exactly what his intentions were. She opened her mouth to scream, but Alcott clamped a hand down over her mouth so that no noise could emerge. Why had she not taken him down? How had she allowed herself to be subdued without a fight? She bit down hard on Alcott's hand and he bellowed, relinquishing his hold long enough for her to land a swift upper-cut beneath his left eye. It was like hitting concrete. _

_As Irene clutched at her hand, she felt Alcott's arms around her once more, squeezing tightly, wrestling her to the bed. She screamed out and struggled, kicking, thrashing, and throwing wild punches – anything to keep the repulsive man above her from getting a strong grip. There was a horrendous ripping noise as the silk dress she was wearing tore from the waist, exposing her legs. _

"_Get your hands off me!" Irene slapped at Alcott's arms, desperate to have him away from her. She let out another yell as he grabbed at her corset, pulling with such strength that the ties at the back were ripped apart and the dress itself fell away. _

"_This will be easier for you," Alcott hissed into her ear, "if you would _shutup_ and stay still! Otherwise, I fear the experience will be somewhat traumatic..." _

"_No! No, get the hell off me!" Her screams were silenced yet again by a hand clamped viciously over her mouth, but she wriggled free yet again, drew breath and spat into his face. His punch sent her reeling. She landed face-down on the bed, stunned and unable to move._

_Real panic set in as Irene, through her starry-eyed vision, saw Alcott unbuckle the belt of his military trousers, hands twitching with what appeared to be anticipation. Dazed as she was, Irene could not fail to miss the searing pain as Alcott positioned himself over her limply twitching frame and callously invaded her body. Tears began to seep down her cheeks, not just from the agony of each second Alcott was inside her, but from the realisation of what was happening. She was worth nothing now – merely a toy with no purpose than to satisfy the carnal desires of men. A harlot. A whore..._

"_What an evening it's been," mused Sergeant Hawthorne, running a hand through his curly hair with an air of exhaustion. "Paperwork seems a far more tireless task when one has spent the whole day being idle."_

"_You spend it with Miss Irene, yes?" It was Jamal who walked beside the Sergeant, released at last from a particularly pressing royal engagement and free to wander the palace and grounds at his pleasure. Tonight the two young men were on their way to find the third member of their party and surprise her, a bottle of whiskey in hand. _

"_Yes, down by the river." Hawthorne frowned and fingered the bridge of his nose gingerly. "The sun was out all day, and I got back to discover the most deplorable freckles all over my face!"_

_Jamal knew enough English to understand Hawthorne's disgust and laughed quietly. _

"_It's not funny in the slightest!" Hawthorne's smile showed he was joking. "I think..." His voice trailed off. They had reached the outside door of the guest quarters, and even through the thick wood, it was impossible to mistake – the sound of terrified sobs coming from somewhere inside._

"_Behind me," Hawthorne commanded, reaching into his belt and removing the revolver which was strung there. _

"_I like," Jamal pulled out his dagger to show Hawthorne that he was more than capable of defending himself, "to be beside!" _

_As one, the two men moved up the stairs and onto the top corridor where the two main bedrooms were located. The sobs were louder up here and far more distressing._

"_Check it." Hawthorne indicated the first door to Jamal, leaving the prince behind him as he proceeded to the second of the two rooms. It occurred to him that his friend was a member of the Royal Family and that to put him in potential danger by allowing him to explore the room alone was far from a sensible plan. If there _was_ any danger, anyhow. He had good instincts, and presently they were telling him that the danger was already long-gone._

_Revolver poised and ready (but bizarrely with the whiskey bottle still clutched in the other hand), Hawthorne kicked the door open and bustled inside. What he saw took his breath away. The bottle fell to the ground with a smash, but Hawthorne did not even notice. _

_Irene was lying on the bed, bare from head to toe aside from a few shreds of rose-pink fabric which were strewn around her – remains of the dress she had worn that day. She was trembling, shuddering and sobbing, face stained with tears and (most appalling of all) what appeared to be a black eye already forming against her pale skin. _

"_Jamal!" Hawthorne shouted for the prince before running towards Irene, snatching her silken robe from its hook to preserve her modesty. _

_Irene's eyes were tightly shut and she jolted with a shout as Hawthorne put his hands on her flesh._

"_No! Please no, get off me, no!" _

"_Irene?" _

_Her eyes shot open._

"_Oh...Jim," she managed before dissolving once more into sobs. _

"_Irene, who did this to you?" There was no doubt in Hawthorne's mind what atrocity had been committed here. _

"_I...I can't..." _

_Hawthorne nodded, stroking her hair, realising that he would get no sensible answer until she was calmer. He looked to Jamal who was stood in the doorway in shocked silence, his mouth hanging almost all the way open. _

"_We need a bathtub," Hawthorne said, talking to his friend Jamal rather than to the prince of Kashmir. "A bathtub and hot water... lots of it. Can you get it?" _

_Jamal nodded. _

"_Good." Hawthorne gave the prince a meaningful stare. "No-one must see you, Jamal. Is that perfectly clear?" _

"_Of course, Jim." _

"_Good," Hawthorne repeated. "Now go." _

_When Jamal had returned and the water heated, he turned his back and waited whilst Hawthorne carried the stripped and still shaking Irene to the bathtub and gently lowered her into the steaming water. Irene was beautiful it was true, but Hawthorne did not lust after her as most men would. Irene was not, and never would be, the kind of person he desired; thus, he knew she would not mind his seeing her in her state of nudity. Indeed, Hawthorne suspected she had been so traumatised that she would be immune to any sort of embarrassment..._

_The hot water began to soothe Irene's aches and she was finally able to open her eyes completely. Her head throbbed from the punch Alcott had given her and her body ached like never before, but it was the emotional wounds which she feared would take longer to heal. The water was a comfort in more than one sense – her violation had left her feeling unclean, like a piece of scum in the gutter. But as the water seared her skin, she felt suddenly cleaner, though compelled to scrub her skin so as to cleanse all traces of the rape from her. _

_Hawthorne was patient as could be, helping her to gently soak her hair in the water and holding her still so that -in her weakened state- she would not slip completely below the water. _

_Jamal fetched dry clothes from Irene's cupboard. When she was dried and dressed, she sat down in an armchair _

"_Now..." Hawthorne spoke quietly, yet insistently. "You must tell me, Irene – who did this to you?" _

"At first I thought he'd come to seduce me," Irene said heavily to Holmes. "That he'd clear out once the message had sunk in." She sighed and trembled involuntarily, trying to stave off the memories of that night as they threatened to come flooding back to the forefront of her mind. "It was only afterwards that I realised – he never came to ask..."

At that moment, Holmes was nearer to committing murder than at any other time in his life. Had Alcott not already met his maker in a more than satisfactory fashion, Holmes swore he would have boarded the train at Victoria the very next morning, gone back to Kashmir and killed the bastard himself.

As to the case, Holmes now saw clearly what he had previously missed – There had been no Nahali: Jhasmine had been telling the truth. Jamal had never known about his sister's sordid affair with Alcott; he had seen them together and assumed he was repeating the assault previously performed on Irene with a new hapless victim. How wrong he had been. How wrong they had _all_ been...

Holmes tried desperately to tell himself that it was not his fault she had suffered in silence for so long; that if she had only been honest with him from the start, he would have been able to work out the truth. But no amount of self-assurance could convince him that he was not at least partly to blame for her torment; if only he had not let her go the last time...

He wanted to offer comfort to Irene, but he found he could not move his head to look at her. Holmes wondered how she could stand to have another man touch her after the ordeal Alcott had subjected her to. He wondered how long Irene had been an actress for (he never had found out); long enough to hone some considerable skill without a doubt. Most of all, he wondered what he could say or do to console her. Holmes had never been one for reassuring words...but then what did one do when there were literally no words to say?

Lying silently now beside him, and completely unaware of the thoughts running through her companion's mind, Irene felt as though several tonnes of inexplicable weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She speculated only for a second on how Holmes would react before she found out – a hesitant hand wrapping itself around hers and squeezing tightly, though both their sets of eyes were still focussed firmly on the ceiling. It was not words of comfort, but somehow it was better.

If she had learned anything from this ordeal, she considered, surely it was that where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, it was always better to tell the truth from the outset to avoid complication.

_No_, Irene Adler thought with the glimmer of her old smile into the darkness. It was after all far more fun to watch him attempt to figure it out for himself...


	27. Most Faithfully

**Author's Note: Hi guys! Again, very sorry it's been so long, but here is chapter 27! :) We're getting close to the end now, and am on holiday til September now which means plenty of time for writing! This might be a bit of a downer, but I won't leave you guys hanging on too long this time...that's a promise! Enjoy! :D**

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Holmes slept soundly that night; the sensation of Irene's bare skin touching his was strangely comforting, and not just because of the heat their two bodies pressed together produced. He woke up in great discomfort -muscles stiff from a night spent on the floorboards- just as the sun was beginning to rise, and became immediately aware that he was cold; Irene had moved away from him in the night and he now lay beneath the blanket alone on the floor of his room.

In one surging movement, Holmes sat up ramrod straight and tore his sleepy eyes open. Irene was bent over the cluttered desk, already dressed and in the act of folding a piece of ink-scribed paper into an envelope. She had her back to him, and apparently had not noticed him wake.

An amateur in this field would not have found it difficult to deduce what Irene was up to; for Sherlock Holmes, it was child's play. A strange feeling deep inside caused his chest to tighten, and he cleared his throat loudly.

"Were you going somewhere?"

Irene jumped, startled at the sound of his voice, but did not look 'round. Holmes did not have to be able to see her face to know she was trying desperately to think of something to say which would sufficiently explain why she was attempting to leave before he woke up, and failing miserably. She turned slowly, and Holmes met her eye for the first time – the one thing he had feared the most. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and then finally twisted her mouth into a wry half-smile which -in case there had been any doubt at all- told Holmes all he needed to know.

"It was a long shot," she said.

Holmes nodded stiffly. A hypothesis was beginning to form within Holmes' mind – the tiniest amoeba of a possibility that somebody besides himself was right; namely Doctor Watson who had been telling him right from the start that Irene Adler was nothing more than a lying, scheming, demoralizing specimen of humanity masquerading as an incomparably beautiful and charming woman. Once again, he had been too slow to see it. Once again, he was first in line to get hurt.

"I have a small query, if you'd be so kind as to answer." Holmes got to his feet, lifting his moth-eaten smoking jacket from the back of the armchair and swathing his body in its fabric folds. "Your coming here last night; our..." He considered. "...time together... I'm curious: did you always plan to leave the next morning without explanation, or had you not thought that far ahead?"

The sardonic tone had been deliberate, but Holmes was still surprised by the venom laced to his voice as he spoke. It appeared that he had been so busy impressing upon Watson that his becoming taken with a woman was the single biggest mistake of his life that he had forgotten to practice what he preached. Irene's face had hardened slightly at his words.

"Just...don't do this, Sherlock." She shook her head, sighing deeply. "It's too hard..."

"For _you_?" Holmes asked with incredulity. "It's too hard...for _you_?" He nodded once more. His heart was hammering and he could feel himself growing hot and flustered. So she was leaving again, this was nothing new. But why this sudden feeling – like his stomach, heart, lungs, eyeballs, brain and kidneys were screwing themselves tighter and tighter into a crunched ball of entrails about to implode into total nothingness and leave him empty inside..?

"This wasn't ever my plan," Irene said in belated answer to his question of her intentions. "You have to believe me...I never came here last night wanting to hurt you, it just..."

"Happened?"

"Yes." She nodded, as if grateful he had finished the sentence for her; as if it was somehow more acceptable for her to be feeling and thinking such things so long as she was not the one to say them out loud. "I promise you, I never wanted it to end this way."

"Then this is just another round of your game," Holmes said. "Typical..."

"It's not a game," Irene snapped, "I already told you, it's _not_ a game. I just don't know how to..._You_ don't know how to..."

"How to what?"

"Live an ordinary life!" Irene shook her head, staggered. "You don't, Sherlock. And I don't either, and that's why this," she waved a hand inbetween them both, "this will never end the way we want it to."

For the first time, Holmes noticed that Irene held a framed photograph in her hand. She offered it to him, and he took it. The framework was warm as if it had been held in the same hand all night, and Holmes could tell from the smudges and fingerprints across its surface that that was most likely the case. The picture showed Holmes, messy and scarred, standing between an equally filthy Watson (a long-suffering but exhaustively happy expression on his face) and Mary clad in a stunning white wedding dress. Holmes looked up at Irene questioningly, wondering what the significance of this photograph could possibly be to her.

"Have you seen the way they look at each other?" Irene's voice was strained and burdened with more agony than Holmes had ever heard it. She indicated the frame. "I couldn't sleep last night so I got up for some fresh air and I saw this photograph and just..." Irene shook her head.

Holmes just started at her, unable to come up with anything to say.

"What we have, what we're doing right now," Irene said, "We're on the edge, Sherlock – the edge between being with each other and having a _relationship_ when both of us know that is the one thing we could never have." All at once, her tone changed and she frowned furiously in his direction. "What is it you want? I asked you _two years_ ago to come away with me and you wouldn't do it. Now suddenly you want the opposite?"

"I have never asked anything of you."

"You don't have to ask," she said. "Sherlock, do you think I feel good about all the times I've walked away from you?"

"Oh so just a habit you find it hard to escape from."

Holmes stayed silent; a sure indication to Irene that the Great Detective was at a loss. She sighed once more, knowing she would have to put it bluntly.

"Leaving aside our bogus marriage these last weeks," she said slowly, "If I was _really _Mrs Irene Holmes would you still love me? Would you still love me if I was anyone other than Irene Adler?"

Holmes flinched visibly at her use of _that word_. It was not that he didn't feel it – he knew well enough by now that he most definitely did. It was the fact that she was using it now; now when she was preparing to leave him once more that was tearing him apart from the inside.

"Do you know what happens to people who start a relationship?" Irene demanded. "They have a wedding and a cake and loads of pretty little bridesmaids, and then they go off together and have a life," Irene said, as if Holmes was unaware of the restrictions of marriage. "I mean, come on, Sherlock – haven't you been telling Doctor Watson for years what a huge mistake he made in marrying Mary?"

"I have been known to be wrong...on occasion."

Irene laughed. "Oh that's one for the album - Sherlock Holmes admitting he's wrong...I never thought I'd see the day!"

"We are straying from the subject."

"Yes, you're right," Irene said icily. "Let's get back on track, shall we? Would you like to hear more reasons why we could never make this work?"

"No, but I would very much like to hear the _real_ reason rather than your fabricated excuses to that fact."

"No excuses," Irene said, and she suddenly appeared incredibly focussed. "You say you were wrong about Watson... So what does that mean? Do you want to marry me?"

If Holmes had been drinking, he would have choked. "Miss Adler, marriage would not be a solution for you any more than it would be for me."

"But you would do it?" Irene asked, and her voice was softer now.

Holmes stared resolutely at the floor, determined that he would not meet her eye. He wondered how it always came back down to this – he and Irene facing each other over the tattered ruins of what could potentially have been a fulfilling and wondrous future together, before they had allowed their feelings to get in the way. Every time they were handed another opportunity to make something of their lives together, Holmes realised, one or other of them smashed it to pieces before it had even begun.

Against his will, Holmes found himself looking at her. And suddenly, he wondered what it would be like to wake up every morning with her by his side in bed; to swear before God and with Watson at his side as his best man that he would be loving and faithful to Irene til the end of their days; to hold in his arms the tiny wriggling form of their first-born child, and many years down the line die in the same bed they had lain in for years a happily married man with no regrets to the way he had spent his life. He had experienced the thought; now all that remained was to say the words...

"_If_ I was willing," Holmes said with unbelievable slowness, "...Would you be?"

The sound Irene made was midway between a gasp and a sob. Somehow, Holmes knew what her answer would be before she had even said it.

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be." He meant it, though he had no idea how. "It would be a sham of a marriage anyway – a leaky bucket...full of holes, nothing of substance inside."

"It's not because I wouldn't want to," Irene said softly. "A marriage is based on trust. And there's none of it between us."

Holmes nodded once more, secretly glad she had answered the way she had. It had occurred to him as soon as he'd said it that marriage was a mistake of gargantuan proportions where he and Irene were concerned. Experience had told him that Irene Adler and a legally binding arrangement of any kind would make for an unstable and potentially explosive experiment. What he could not understand, however, was why Irene had not yet suggested that she stay anyway. He had never said that he wanted to marry her; merely that he would consider it if needs must. He didn't _want_ to marry her, but he did want her. It was a knife-edge, and they were both dangerously close to toppling off.

"You asked me once to run away with you," Holmes said, to himself more than to her.

"And last night, when I came here to you, I was prepared to ask again," Irene said. "But seeing that photo made me realise – we weren't made for anything more than liaisons, and that's the way it's always going to be." She sighed. "Besides, a marriage ruined my opinion of a man I loved more than words. Don't ask me to let the same thing happen with you, Sherlock..."

So that was it, then. That was the real reason why Irene was walking away yet again; not just to escape from the net of impending commitment, but from the idea of a future which ultimately scared her far more than the fear of being forever alone. Though she had not said so, Holmes suspected then that Irene's previous divorce from Geoffrey Norton had little or nothing to do with the reasons that she had cited; that instead she had had her heart broken, but could not bring herself to tell Holmes the truth when she returned. Which made her...what to him, exactly? In that moment, Holmes swore he saw Irene Adler's flaws for the first time. She had wanted him only too readily when she needed or wanted something from him, but that was where it stopped. Had she wanted anything more last night than just a pair of arms willing and open to her, knowing he would be unable to resist her advances? Holmes did not doubt her word – she would have asked him once more to run away with her had she not discovered the photograph. The real question was how long they'd have lasted before old issues began to surface – if his time with Irene had taught Holmes anything at all, it was that you can only pretend for so long. She was _The_ Woman; not _His _Woman and that was all she would ever be.

So it was with a heavy heart but clear conscience that Holmes set the photograph of himself, Watson and Mary back on the table, tugged resolutely on the ties of his smoking jacket and offered Irene a hand.

"Let us part with a handshake then, Miss Adler."

"Why?" She smiled slightly, asking more out of curiosity than objection.

Holmes swallowed uncomfortably, as if the words were there but did not quite wish to leave his mouth. The overbearing and logical voice marked _Reason_ which sat astride his right shoulder was screaming in his ear to stay silent, to return to his armchair and let her go in the same fashion as the last time she had left – before the Blackwood case when she walked out of his rooms and he had not even met her eye. There was no harm to be drawn from letting the same thing happen again. Except for a tiny whisper in his opposite ear – the voice of _Heart_ telling him to say something -_anything_- to Irene which would ease the pain of her leaving again, and somehow make things right between them before she did.

"Because," he said finally, "I feel I would regret parting ways once more without doing so properly..."

Irene smiled, properly this time. "We did, Sherlock – last night..." She obliged and shook his hand comically. Holmes could see tears welling in her azure eyes as she stepped closer to him. "In another time, if we were different people, Sherlock...I'd wish I didn't have to go."

_Then stay._ The voice of _Reason_ won this time. He watched as Irene closed the distance between them and pressed her shaking lips to his cheek one last time, before drawing back and leaving the room. He did not turn to the window to watch her leave via the steps and begin her journey along Baker Street as he once might have. Instead his eyes fell upon the note she had left for him on the table – the white envelope bearing no title. He scooped it from the tabletop and ripped the envelope open.

_My Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes_, it read.

_I thought that the hours since we parted at Victoria late last night would have given me time to come up with the words for a proper goodbye, but I still find myself at a loss. Please let me begin by saying thank you – though no measure of thanks can be enough to repay what you did for me and what you have saved me from. I realise you may feel as though I betrayed your trust. Oh Sherlock, I think you know as well as I do that I never had your trust to betray. You cannot always choose who you fall in love with, but you can choose who you trust. In time I hope you will realize as I have that although there has been little trust between us, there has been love and lust and some of the best times of my life – in every sense, for you are an amazing man, Sherlock Holmes, in so very many ways. On the table with this letter you will find a bag containing the five-hundred shillings promised as payment for the case. I feel sure we'll meet again sometimes soon; in the meantime, please be assured I'll miss you greatly._

_Most faithfully, Sherlock,_

_Yours_

_IRENE ADLER_

The words of the letter seemed almost void considering their earlier conversation. Holmes looked to the tabletop. There, as stated, was a small satin tie-up bag filled with coins. He set the letter down and took to his armchair, rubbing his chin in thought. The woman was an impossibility. Holmes could not claim to understand her now anymore than when they had first met. When he thought of all she had said to him, of her reasons for leaving, not one of them made any sense at all – she was playing with him once more as she had played with him so many times in the past.

An ordinary man would have screamed, thrust his fist through the nearest window and sworn to boycott womankind forever. But Sherlock Holmes was not an ordinary man. He had not screamed since infancy, there was no window nearby to punch, and there was only one woman for him. There was nothing more to do or say. In one movement, Holmes ripped Irene's note in two and threw the pieces into the fireplace. Later on when a fire was roaring in the grate, he watched the words burn to ash. On impulse and fuelled by a reckless adrenaline he'd never quite felt before, he reached for the dossier marked IRENE ADLER, ripped pages at a time from inside and fed them one by one into the flames too. Sure now that his eyes and body was ablaze too with hatred and bitterness, he found himself in frenzy, snatching his most treasured possession from the tabletop and holding it over the grate with the intention of watching it burn too, but at the last minute stopped himself. What good would it do?

Slowly, very slowly, Holmes set the photo frame holding Irene's picture back on the table and headed downstairs to search out his pipe.


	28. Always a Woman

**Announcement of Birth  
****  
****On the 11****th**** January, to Doctor John H. Watson and his wife Mary  
**– **A beautiful daughter, Esme Grace.  
****Doctor and Mrs Watson would like to assure family and friends that the child is in perfect health and that a christening service will be announced imminently.**

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The winter weather was cold and unyielding as Sherlock Holmes made his way slowly down from the street corner into Cavendish Place. It had been snowing hard all night, but Watson's invitation had been very specific – come rain, shine, wind, blizzard or hailstorm, Holmes was to be at the family home at five o'clock on the dot, and woe betide him if he was not there.

The exact nature of the occasion had not been stated, but Holmes had his suspicions. It was early February, and Holmes had spent much of the last month and a half popping in and out of the Watsons' house in order to visit his newborn Goddaughter. His presence was always welcomed; indeed, Watson had more than once stated that he and Mary would have another baby far sooner if they'd thought it would bring Holmes from the shadow of his rooms as often as it had. Though he would never have said so, Holmes was really quite taken with little Esme, and he was secretly chuffed that his casual suggestion of a name for the baby was the one they decided to pick.

The seven months since the return from India had brought Holmes twelve minor cases and five lasting more than a month. It was unusual, Watson had thought, for Holmes to accept without question or encouragement every case which came his way. This was proof more than any that the detective was trying to keep himself permanently occupied, lest his mind wander into territory best forgotten.

Not thirty seconds before the dull clang of the bell in St Steven's Tower would signal five o'clock, Holmes leapt up the steps at the front of the house and knocked smartly on the door. Almost immediately, it swung open on its hinges and Doctor Watson stood in his midst – holding a pocket watch aloft, wearing a black jacket and an amused smile.

"You're early," he said.

Holmes smiled at his friend as he stepped through the doorframe and shook Watson by the hand. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the banister for safekeeping.

"Fashionably."

"Upstairs," Watson told him, taking to the first step with his friend right behind him. His leg had long-since healed, but he still limped occasionally. "I hope you're hungry..."

The second door to the right on the first floor of the Watsons' townhouse led to their oversized drawing room – once luxuriously furnished, though the mahogany fittings had dulled and polished floorboards covered over with carpeting for the benefit of toddling infants. Watson allowed Holmes a few seconds to make it level with him, and gave a two-handed push to the door.

It had been on the train to India all those months ago that the idea had come to Watson – the trick to throwing Holmes a birthday celebration he could not deduce and avoid was to hold it so far away from his birthday that the idea would never cross his mind. So once enough time had passed that he and Mary could think of anything besides their parental duties, they had put their heads together and begun to plan. Watson had been in charge of guests, and here he had struggled. Though Sherlock Holmes had many acquaintances and trusted connections, Watson was not keen to issue invitations to the collection of backstreet gypsy fortune tellers, vagrant city children and unstable tugboat captains whose names he had found on scraps of paper scattered around 221b, nor would he know how to go about tracking them down. Mary had had more success with catering - with the help of Mrs Hudson and the family's own cook Elizabeth, a fine spread had been laid on - sandwiches and rolls with a dozen different fillings, jam buns, sausages on sticks, an enormous sticky chocolate cake dusted with icing sugar and, of course, several bowls of black olives among other plates of delicious party treats. With food prepared and guests cordially invited, the Watsons had transformed their drawing room into a palace of streamers, bunting and paper chains; oh so beautiful, and identical to a scene straight out of Holmes' worst nightmare.

Plans had been laid out meticulously down to the last detail: Watson would answer the door to Holmes at five o'clock sharp, bringing him upstairs to the drawing room where he would be expecting to find Mary, Tilly, Rose and Esme waiting for him, followed by a magnificent supper. Instead, Mary, Tilly, Rose and Esme would be waiting with twenty five honoured guests, all gathered in the drawing room with the sole intention of wishing him, Sherlock Holmes, many happy returns. When the detective entered the room, a cry of _'Surprise' _would goup, and thus would begin the party.

Doctor Watson was a realist, and he knew Holmes incredibly well; therefore realising that he would be suspicious of the invitation for supper, and that it would not take him long to work out what was afoot. In the event, as he pushed on the wood of the door and allowed the detective to pass through the door before him, it had never once occurred to Watson that the detective might actually be totally and completely surprised...

No sooner had the cry gone up and before he could fully take in the two-dozen beaming faces around him, Holmes' had jumped quite out of his skin; his revolver drawn from his pocket and three shots fired through the glass of the drawing room window. As screams rent the air, Watson made a grab for the weapon, only to have an elbow thrust in his face – a result of his friend's reflex reaction to panic.

"_Holmes!_" Watson clamped both hands over his face, blood dripping profusely from between his fingers. "Holmes for _God_'s sake – you broke my _dose!" _

Holmes still held the revolver aloft, though it finally appeared to have dawned upon him that this was intended to be a pleasant surprise rather than an attack. He gazed around the room at the shell-shocked guests which included Mary of course (who was crouched to the ground with her body shielding her three children from the gunshots), and Mrs Hudson. There was little surprise on the face of the latter; she had, after all, been Holmes' landlady for many years.

Really, Holmes considered, Watson should have known better by now than to try and catch him by surprise. On the other hand, (and this Holmes considered a staggering feat) they had actually managed it! And that was worthy of congratulations indeed. It would be reward enough for their achievement if he played along...

And so, as the guests around the room (the majority being used to Holmes and his peculiar conduct) began to recover themselves, Holmes himself fixed a pleasant smile to his face and began to mill amongst them, shaking hands and accepting well-wishes.

Whilst Watson was excused to clean himself up, the party began. A string quartet struck up a lively tune and the guests crowded around the food table, helping themselves to the eatables as befitted the nature of a party.

"I take it you were surprised..." Holmes turned away from shaking hands with Mary's mother to find Watson waiting for him. "Many happy returns of the day, old chap." They shook hands, Holmes avoiding staring too long at the blood still seeping steadily from the doctor's swollen nose despite his best efforts with a handkerchief. "I'm to pass on a message from Mycroft, who would like to convey his apologies for not being here tonight – he's rather tied up at present."

Before Holmes could answer, a tall man with eyebrows several shades darker than his greying hair approached, and Watson waved him over.

"Holmes, this is Mr Graham Hudson. Mr Hudson, I don't believe you've been formally introduced – this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Delighted." Mr Graham Hudson offered Holmes a hand which he shook with a gracious inclination of the head. "Strange isn't it: years you have occupied residence at 221 Baker Street, and I have heard so much of you from my wife, but not once have I had the pleasure of your acquaintance!"

After he had exchanged a few words with Watson, Hudson moved off once more and Holmes (who of course had put two and two together) leaned in and spoke to Watson in an incredulous whisper.

"Mrs Hudson has a husband?"

"Yes, Holmes." Watson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Only Sherlock Holmes would not have thought of what Mrs Hudson's life was like outside of her duties as his landlady – as to whether or not she had children or how long she had been married."General consensus is that women holding the title of 'Mrs' come with a husband attached..."

At just after eight o'clock, when it was almost pitch dark outside and lamps had been lit so as to preserve the atmosphere inside the house, Watson sidled up alongside Mary. He had removed his jacket some hours ago, held a glass of brut vintage champagne in his hand and a small ball of cotton wool stuffed up each nostril in an attempt to stem the bleeding. The doctor wrapped his free arm around his wife's waist and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

"How are you?"

"Wonderful." Mary smiled and nodded towards the open fireplace. Several armchairs had been left out for the comfort of the guests, and in one sat Holmes, baby Esme on his knee. Though he held her like a bomb due to imminently explode, nobody could deny that the baby and the detective shared a bond and understanding like no other. Watson smiled to himself as he watched Holmes offer Esme his finger, and the baby grab a hold of it.

"I never thought he would be so good with her," Mary murmured, stifling a laugh as the baby hiccoughed and Holmes himself jumped, startled.

"He's full of surprises," Watson agreed. Whereas most people would mollycoddle and coo over such a small child, Holmes never spoke to Esme as such; instead he spoke to her as if she were an adult fully capable of understanding his language and mannerisms. Watson looked back to his wife with a smile. She was so beautiful like this, he thought, when the day was almost over and her hair beginning to fall out of its arrangement around cheeks flushed with fatigue.

"I love you..."

"I love _you_." Mary blushed becomingly, smiling and touching her husband's cheek.

Watson sighed and relaxed as he felt his wife's head come down to rest on his shoulder. He was perfectly content – he was amongst friends, he had a wife and children who loved him, and for once in his life Sherlock Holmes was behaving himself!

The doctor's sharp eye was caught by a young fair-haired maid – one of the dozen or so milling through the guests with covered silver trays laden with vol-au-vents. She wore the same demure pale grey dress, white apron and cap worn by the others, but Watson did not recognise her. That said, there was something strangely familiar about her; perhaps it was the way she walked, or the way her bright blue eyes blinked around at the guests, as though she were studying them each in turn.

"Mary," Watson said, tapping his wife's arm and indicating the young woman as she removed the lid from the tray and offered its contents to Mrs Hudson and her husband. "Who's the girl with the blonde hair? I don't recognise her..."

"Oh she responded to the advertisement Elizabeth sent out," Mary said matter-of-factly. "We were on the lookout for volunteer staffing for this evening, and Miss Campbell was one of the first."

Watson's eyes snapped wide open as he stared intently at Mary.

"What was that name?"

"Miss Campbell," Mary repeated. "Miss Delilah Beverley Campbell. She's an American, I believe; highly qualified. I shall be sorry to let her go once the evening's over..."

"Yes," Watson said slowly. "Yes, I expect her résumé _was_ rather impressive..." He felt the hint of a wry smile gathering on his lips, and had to struggle to straighten his face. "Rather too impressive, even!"

Watson watched, pokerfaced, as Miss D. B Campbell approached Holmes' corner by the fireplace and offered him the tray. The detective glanced her way long enough to decline her offer of refreshment before looking back to the baby. Then, he looked back to the maid and stared intently, as if his brain did not believe what his eyes were seeing.

On cue, or so it seemed, Watson crossed the room to Holmes and held his arms out to take the baby from him.

"Give her to me, Holmes." Watson eyed his friend meaningfully. "Is there somewhere else you need to be..?"

Holmes did not answer; merely surrendered Esme to her father, stood up and looked to the door where Miss Campbell had just exited, holding her empty tray for refilling.

Quietly, and with a feeling in his gut which felt something like excitement, Holmes slipped through the now darkened corridors of the Watson's house, down a flight of stairs to the bottom hallway and through the door to the servant's quarters which would lead him to the kitchen. On the opposite side of the kitchen there was a large pantry concealed behind an oak door, and Holmes arrived in the room just in time to see the flash of grey fabric disappearing behind it before the door slammed shut and his view was obscured.

Holmes looked around him at the poorly lit kitchen, and at last saw what he had been looking for – a rusty key on the tabletop which would fit the lock on the pantry door. He snatched it up and approached the door, lifting the latch and slipping inside. Miss Campbell was bent over the table, arranging more vol-au-vents on her tray, but she froze as she heard the detective behind her clearing his throat for attention.

"I like what you've done with your hair," Holmes said, turning the key in the lock and dropping it into his waistcoat pocket. "Though I must confess, I prefer it darker..."

With a sigh, Miss Campbell pulled off the white cap and wig she wore, allowing her natural chocolate curls to spill out from underneath.

"Better?"

"Much." Holmes kept his distance, but allowed one corner of his mouth to come up in a sardonic half-smile. "Where was it this time? Paris? New York? Somewhere warm judging by the suntan..."

"Rome," said Irene, flopping down into one of the wooden chairs around the pantry table and propping her feet up onto another. "I'm exhausted – it's been a strenuous evening!"

"Your own doing, naturally," Holmes said, noticing there was a chair vacant next to Irene, and lowering himself onto it. "Why you seem incapable of knocking on my front door and announcing yourself is beyond me!"

"Oh, well I like to keep you guessing," she grinned, taking up one of the remaining jam buns from the platter on the table and biting into it. "I'd hate for my visits to become boring for you..."

"Boring, you say?" Holmes considered, smiling slightly. "Never."

Barely seconds more had passed before they had both surged forward in their chairs and had begun kissing, wrapped tightly in each other's arms...

* * *

The first time it happened, the circumstances were more coincidental than strictly planned out. It was mid-October and Holmes was at the Palace Hotel in Westminster accompanied by Inspector Lestrade and a number of his cronies, intent upon making the arrest which would procure another commendation for Lestrade, and a night of restful sleep for Holmes.

When the assailant (a Sherpa bellboy stationed on the fifth floor of the hotel) had been detained, Holmes was making his way back through the entrance hall to depart when his eye was caught by a figure in a pink ruffled dress being led to the elevator and thus, apparently, to her room. There was only one woman in the world who would step out in a dress like that; only one Holmes knew anyhow...

He had turned on his heel and sprinted up the corridor, to find the elevator had left without him. He took the stairs three at a time, pausing to conceal himself in an alcove around the corner from the elevator doors and peered around, unseen. The elevator was facing away from him, and he could only see the back of the figure as she exited the elevator and began to walk away from him down the corridor. Holmes breath hitched in his chest as the cogs of his mind began to whir. Was it her? It couldn't be, she was long gone. But what if it was? Well _what if_ it was – she was nothing to him now; just a memory. But could he really pass up the opportunity? Of course he could. _Would_ he? Grimly, Holmes knew then that he could not leave the hotel until he had found out.

Concentrating hard now, Holmes watched the figure as the concierge led her down the corridor of rooms. Which room would she go into? Holmes was at the wrong angle entirely to count doors, so instead he counted their footsteps as they moved away from the elevator. _Twenty one._ Once the figure had disappeared inside the room door and the concierge back in the elevator to make his descent, Holmes left his hiding place and drew level with the elevator. Then he began to walk at a smart pace down the corridor.

Twenty one paces left him level with the door of room number 17c. Holmes took a deep breath and sniffed the air. _Parisian perfume_. How typical. He was tempted to knock on the door until he realised Irene (if indeed it _was_ Irene in the room, and of this he was fairly certain) would glance through the peephole, recognise him and refuse to answer. One thing was certain, and that was Irene would not take to his appearance kindly! Holmes needed another plan, and it was not long before one came to him. Silently, he backed away from door 17c and returned to the opposite end of the corridor.

Some two or three minutes later, Irene Adler heard a knock on the door of her hotel room and looked 'round. She was not expecting visitors. Who could it be? Irene peered through the peephole, sighing and pulling the door open when she saw it was a concierge clad in the customary red and gold uniform of all Palace Hotel employees.

"Can I help you with anything?" She asked.

"That depends," came the answer, "on how helpful you intend upon being!"

Before the colour had a chance to drain from Irene's cheeks, the 'concierge' had a foot in the doorway. It did not stop her from attempting to slam it, however, and Holmes (for it was he) yelped in pain as the heavy wood compacted his foot into the doorframe.

"You found me then." She left him to hop and limp in the doorway, returning into the room to begin unpacking her suitcase.

"That wasn't my intention..." Holmes made it into the room and discarded the red jacket he had stolen from the laundry room at the end of the corridor.

"If that wasn't your intention, then why are you here?"

"I might ask you the same question," Holmes said factiously. "I happen to live in London. You on the other hand..."

"I'm a busy woman, Sherlock," she sighed. "So why don't you save us both some time and just tell me straight up - What is it you want?"

"I was simply following a lead," Holmes explained with just a hint of malice. "Curious as I was to see if it was really you I had seen. Naturally I shall be departing imminently now my suspicions have been confirmed." He raised one eyebrow, never breaking her gaze. "Unless of course you have other plans..."

He was mocking her, she knew. And yet part of her still wondered whether or not once more could hurt. She wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied look from his face, and all at once knew exactly how she could do it. Holmes barely had time to react before he found his hands pinned ungraciously behind his back and Irene's whole body weight lifting him from his feet. They tumbled to the floor in a heap, and Holmes felt rather than saw her lean in to claim his lips.

* * *

And so it was that one chance meeting in room 17c of a London hotel led to a series of further liaisons between sleuth and seductress - once after they met 'by chance' in the Portobello market; once as Holmes was making his way back from an especially brutal night's boxing at the Punch Bowl; once more as a pressing case took Holmes to northern Somerset as he boarded a train; and so the list went on. Just the one time could have been construed as accidental. By the second and third time it happened, Holmes for one was unconvinced. After the third visit, Irene gave up making excuses for her appearances, having realised that the truth rang too loudly for any false reason to mask it. It was a scenario to suit them both – an ongoing tryst which could never be confused with a relationship. They did not fight or argue. They did not exchange compliments, pleasantries or words of affection because they were so apparent that there was no need to say them at all. Just what he was doing meddling once again with Irene Adler, setting himself up once again, Holmes was not entirely sure. All that he _did_ know was that he never, ever wanted it to end.

An involuntary shiver down his spine brought Holmes back from his reminiscing with a bump. Irene had climbed onto his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist, and was kissing his neck. He loved it when Irene kissed his neck...

"Seven months and counting," Irene murmured, nipping at the skin behind Holmes' ear and delighting in the soft groan it produced. "How much longer do you want to keep this up, Sherlock?"

"I told you before," Holmes said, "I can hold out just as long as you can, Irene..." He let his hand wander up into her soft curls, breathing in her smell and knowing he was home.

"We'll see." Irene pressed herself into him so they sat chest-to-chest. "But what happens if you're right?"

"Mmhmm?"

"What will you do," Irene asked, "if I leave today..." She raked her nails painfully slowly down his chest, feeling the defined muscles through his shirt. "...and I never come back? You'll be at a totally loose-end!"

"That, I feel, will never be a problem, Miss Adler." Holmes' hands came down over her shoulders and back, pulling her lips down towards his.

"And why not?"

"Because you'll come back," Holmes said resolutely, staring the beautiful creature in his lap straight in the eye.

"This could be the last time," she teased. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because you'll miss me."

Irene broke into a huge smile as she leaned in to kiss him once more.

"Sadly," she said, "Yes..."

**THE END**

* * *

_She can lead you to love, she can take you or leave you_

_She can ask for the truth but she'll never believe you_

_And she'll take what you give her as long as it's free_

_Yes she steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me._

_Oh, she takes care of herself_

_She can wait if she wants_

_She's ahead of her time_

_Oh, and she never gives out_

_And she never gives in_

_She just changes her mind._

_She's frequently kind, and she's suddenly cruel_

_She can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool_

_And she can't be convicted, she's earned her degree_

_And the most she will do is throw shadows at you_

_But she's always a woman to me_

**Billy Joel, **_She's Always a Woman_

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm really anxious about this...it's the final chapter so this is it guys! D: I just would like to say a huge, mahoosive THANK YOU to everybody who has followed, read and reviewed this story! The feedback I've had from you guys has been amazing - so much more than I could ever have hoped for, and I'm beyond jazzed that we made it to 400 reviews before the story's end! :D As always, reviews and comments concerning this final installment would be appreciated so very much..I'm desperate to know if it's up to scratch. Hope you all were happy with the ending - I couldn't bear to leave them alone...they're meant for each other in some way, even if a normal relationship is SO not the way to go! :L **

**As for the song lyrics at the end, if you don't already know the song, go listen to it now! It reflects Irene so well (in my humble opinion), and I've been listening to it so much when inspiration for Irene's dirty deeds runs low! ;) **

**It's been a journey guys...thanks so much for sharing it with me! :D M xxx **


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